


Raising April

by Dragonlitterchanger



Series: April Fools - The Joke Is On You [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, M/M, Non-Graphic Rape/Non-Con, Shower Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-22
Updated: 2016-12-30
Packaged: 2018-04-22 21:42:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 19
Words: 43,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4851503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dragonlitterchanger/pseuds/Dragonlitterchanger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft and Greg are raising a handful. With the help of Uncle Sherlock and Uncle John of course. And Nanny B. And other helpful protagonists.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The other paternal grandparents

  
_Size one_

 

 

“We’re half an hour late already,” Mycroft complained as he finally got into the car, joining Gregory and April on the back seat. He nodded to the driver, who took off at a sedate pace. “All just because we had to load the car with diapers!”

“Just be grateful that we were able to talk Nanny B into not coming along. Mum would flip. It’s enough that we’re bringing a surprise baby - one shock at the time.“

“Quite, but since it was my rather well-chosen words that convinced her to avail herself of this heretofore planned day off, the gratitude should be directed towards me. May I ask how you have planned to manifest it?” Mycroft smirked, removing a minute speck of dust from April’s jumpsuit.

“Are you sitting there brazenly asking for a blowjob at bedtime?”

“I am nothing if not brazen,” Mycroft assured him.

“Well, you’re not going to braze around my mum’s house. I can’t… not with both her and April in the house. So nope, sorry.”

“Your fellating skills have grown to quite impressive standards. You have nothing to be ashamed off,” Mycroft insisted.

“Could we possibly have this conversation somewhere else but in a chauffeured car?” Greg begged, his cheeks slightly reddened.

“Oh, George doesn’t care about our sex life. Do you, George?”

“Not in the least sir. I pretty much only care ‘bout my own,” George answered as he navigated the car onto the A23 towards Croydon.

Greg leant over to Mycroft and whispered, “If you are very lucky, I may let you feel me up tonight, but only if April is asleep.”

“Of course she’ll be asleep,” Mycroft assured him. “She’s a newborn. She sleeps, cries, eats and then sleeps some more. That’s her current day job.”

After an hour or so they arrived at the two-story house on Purley Way and George started to haul the pile of bags out of the car for them.

Greg took the basinet with April in his arms, while Mycroft strode up to the house to ring the bell. Just as his finger hovered over it, however, the door was pulled open and a silver haired woman smiled broadly up at him. “Hello Shirley, we are…” Mycroft began but was cut off by said Shirley.

“Finally! I was beginning to worry that my buns wouldn’t stay warm if you didn’t get here soon. So great that you could…” She stopped mid-sentence, enthralled by what she saw behind Mycroft. “Greg…? Greg… love? Is that… is that yours?”

Greg smiled proudly and held the basinet out towards her, presenting his price as if he was starring in ‘The Lion King’. “Ours, mum. Our daughter. Mycroft’s and mine. We finally made it.”

“Oh, who bore her?” Shirley asked, slightly confused, looking between them.

“I try not to,” Mycroft assured her with a dry smile.

“Moron,” she declared and took the basinet from Greg’s hands. “I mean, how did you… is she adopted?”

“No, mum. She’s born by a surrogate. And she has the DNA of both of us, so she really is our daughter. Together,” Greg explained, smile as broad as the Thames at Gravesend.

“Just wait till she wakes up, then you will be able to observe a family trait,” Mycroft smiled, looking forward to the moment Shirley would recognise her son’s beautiful features in April’s eyes.

“And you didn’t say a word about it to your old mum while planning it? Greg Lestrade, just you wait till your dad hears about this!”

“Mum, I’m not really afraid of dad anymore. It’s not like he’s going to beat me up, is it now?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t count on that,” a deep voice rumbled from just inside the door, and Greg hurried inside to give his father a hug.

“So this is why you’ve condescended to spend a whole day and night with us poor relatives in Croydon? Or are you staying a week or two? Doesn’t seem like the driver is done emptying the car yet.”

“Yes, sorry Gerard, but travelling with a baby apparently means a disproportionate trousseau. The smaller the child, the more baggage is required.”

“Jerry, please, Mycroft!” Jerry sighed, not holding out much hope.

“I shall try to remember it,” Mycroft fibbed and gave Gerard a cursory hug and turned to help Shirley navigate the basinet through the fairly narrow corridor to the reception room. “It’s your task to get the diapers in, Gregory, as per our agreement.”

“Right. Give me a hand, dad?” Greg shrugged and went out to retrieve the multiple bags from George.

“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were pussy whipped.”

“Dad! Fer fecks sake…! OUA!”

“Are you all right, sir?” George asked as he brought out the last square weightless, tent-sized bag containing yet unused diapers, placing it on top of the impressive stack.

“Just having a small altercation with this old deranged cop,” Greg wailed as he hefted three of the bags up and started hauling them in, leaving the rest for his dad, who richly deserved it, in his opinion.

“Kids, George. Think really, really hard before you get any,” Jerry offered in the way of a tip, loading the last bags onto his broad shoulders.

“Too late, sir. I have four.”

“Ouch. Make a run for it. It’s never too late,” Jerry suggested.

“May I offer you a lift somewhere, sir? The hills, perhaps?” George gestured to the now empty car.

“I’m done for, but save yourself,” Jerry smiled and turned back before going in, “unless you want to come in and have a brew?”

“A bit early for me. Besides, I’m driving this back, sir.” George banged the roof of the Jaguar. “In case the nanny or the butler needs a ride on their day off. It’s alas not my day off.”

“Is it ever really, George?” Jerry commiserated.

“With four kids? I’m afraid not. But enjoy your new grandchild. I hear she’s a joy. See you tomorrow.”

“You’re a real gem, we could have used someone like you on the force you know. You’re wasted in this job.” Jerry shook his head at the menial tasks George seemed to be undertaking.

“Helped save your son’s life when he was shot,” George reminded him.

“And you just stay right where you are till retirement. Mycroft tips you good, right?” Jerry heaved a sigh of mixed anxiety and relief thinking back to that particularly horrible phone call.

“He takes very good care of me, sir, thank you, and my kids are all signed up for the school of our choice, so no complaints. Don’t worry. I’ll keep them safe. Only tonight, I’ll leave that job in your capable hands. So see you tomorrow afternoon. Give me a ring if you need to get rid of them before then.” George winked at Jerry and turned the engine on to spin mode and purred off down the street.

“How many of these bags contain alcohol?” Jerry yelled at the open door, figuring Greg could hear him, but receiving no answer he hefted them up with disappointing ease. Clearly nothing substantial in them. Likely just diapers as expected, he concluded.

When they entered the house with the many bags Mycroft snatched ‘Diaper 1’ and headed upstairs, followed by Shirley who was carrying April.

“I’ll just get started on this, if you’ll please bring bag ‘Formula 1’ and bag ‘Indoor clothing 1’ up to me, please,” Mycroft informed him.

Greg obliged and dug out the required baby-maintenance-items, hauling them up to Mycroft in his old room. Mycroft had cleared the desk and was in the process of turning it into a makeshift diaper changing facility.

“If you two hadn’t been so bloody secretive, I could have borrowed some stuff from your sister and had this place prepared for a baby,” Shirley complained to Greg while gently placing April on the surface.

While Mycroft deftly changed her diaper, Greg got out a new outfit, handing it to him, and then turned to prepare a bottle for her.

“Sorry mum, but we really just wanted to give you a nice surprise. The last two times you’ve had news from me were sort of mixed. First, that I had shacked up with a male government official, and you didn’t exactly throw a party at that one, till you met him, and the next bit of news was that I had been shot.”

Shirley paled visibly at that memory.

“So we figured, let’s give you a nice surprise for a change. Don’t you like it?”

“Are you kidding? I’m over the moon. She is adorable! I just don’t understand why you couldn’t let me know you were planning this.”

“Mycroft will explain all that over dinner,” Greg assured her.

“No, I’ll explain it right now, Shirley.” Mycroft dismissed Gregory with a wave of his hand. “You go down and make that bottle ready, and we’ll come down shortly.”

Greg felt equal parts dismissed and relieved. No one could handle his mother like Mycroft, so he happily set to his task. And as expected, his mother looked much enlightened when she descended with April, and was granted the honour of feeding her.

As usual Greg couldn’t wedge a piece of paper between Mycroft and his mum during the dinner preparations. They were thick as thieves those two; had been within five minutes of first meeting each other. It wasn’t till they sat down to a enjoy a cup of coffee while the roast was well tucked into the oven with half a dozen of Mycroft’s secret ingredients that he managed to hold his hand. He always felt more assured when he had physical contact with his lover, particularly around his parents.

“Oh, forgot to tell you,” his mum said. “Your sister is coming for dinner. She can’t wait to see you.”

“Uh, the marvellous Suzette joining us?” Mycroft smiled broadly. He enjoyed teasing her with her inane job as a councillor for Labour in Croydon, not to mention it was rare for him to meet someone with as many challenges to their name as he had struggled with himself. “Full entourage?”

“No, afraid not. Tom and the kids have some Boy Scout thing they are off too, but Suzette insisted on meeting her big brother. Just wait till she sees the little bonus you brought.” Shirley offered Mycroft the sugar bowl, but he declined. “You’re keeping him too skinny, Greg. You never liked them skinny, did you?”

“Oh, don’t get us started, mum. He likes skinny, I don’t mind a bit of flesh to hold on to, but he’s always dieting.”

“Not when you make desserts, Shirley. I’ll eat those any time,” Mycroft smiled at her.

“Kiss arse,” Greg chided him.

“No, I do love them.”

“Oh, so it’s just my desserts you don’t like?” Greg’s eyebrows were crawling north at an alarming rate.

“Run, Mycroft, save yourself. I’ll take care of your house, your butler and your bank account for you,” Jerry advised him.

“I adore anything you produce for me in the kitchen, but if I allowed myself to indulge in everything you miraculously offer to share with me, I would not fit in the Jaguar, nor my suits. Nor…” and now he whispered something in Greg’s ear that brought a smile to Greg’s lips and a rosy colour to his cheeks, making Shirley clear her throat a couple of times to regain their attention.

It was approaching five o’clock when they heard a cheerful ‘yuhuuu’ as the front door slammed and Suzette let herself in.

“In the kitchen, love,” Shirley called out and got up to retrieve an extra cup for her daughter.

“Gregster… Mykeeeer.” She exclaimed happily when entering the kitchen, rubbing her knuckles on the top of Greg’s head, thoroughly mussing his hair up, and enjoying the wince on Mycroft’s face at the mutilation of his name.

“I bet you’ve missed me, you old Tory-artefact,” she smiled at Mycroft.

“Communist!” he sneered at her.

“Elitist!” she snarled back.

“Bottomfeeder.”

“Oppressor!”

“Marxist!”

“For God’s sake, Mycroft. I’m a labour counsellor, not about to storm Buckingham Palace with a sickle and scythe,” Suzette laughed as she pulled out a chair to sit at the kitchen table, facing her nemesis.

“I know you’re not. I have you under surveillance,” Mycroft informed her with raised eyebrows.

“I really, really, really hope you’re kidding, and why is your knee snoring?”

Greg leant in over the table retrieving April from Mycroft’s lap. “April, meet your auntie Sue. Sue, meet my daughter…” he huffed a bit as Mycroft prodded him gently in the ribs, “…our daughter.” Greg beamed with pride and Mycroft revelled in the stunned look and dropped jaw facing him.

“It’s not often you find a labour politician lost for words,” he grinned and adjusted April’s bonnet with the sure authority of a parent.

“You adopted?” Suzette automatically reached out and snatched April from Greg, cradling her in her arms while grinning inanely down at her. Well, Mycroft didn’t find it any more inane than what he normally thought of politicians, but Greg could tell the difference and grinned up at his sister.

“We had a surrogate. She has our genes,” Greg explained.

“For God’s sake, look at her eyes, how can you miss that?” Mycroft frowned at her.

“Yes, I see it. I see it,” Suzette grinned. “So what is she called?”

“April! I just told you,” Greg huffed.

“Yes, but her full name. Is she a Holmes or a Lestrade?”

“Both,” Greg said.

“Uuh, you finally made an honest man out of him, did you Mycroft? Did you two elope or something?”

“We're not married,” Greg said, a little too fast, looking away from his sister.

“Shouldn’t you be? Raising a kid, I mean? Or are you ashamed to share your name with my brother, huh, Mykeer?”

“Me?” Mycroft sat up straight and pointed an accusing finger at Suzette, ”You won’t even own up to your husband and carry his name,” he chided.

“You know why!” Suzette clenched her jaw.

“I don’t see the problem. Tom Crepps is a fine name.” Mycroft barely managed to hold back a snicker. “And Suzette Crepps is positively mouth-watering,” he continued, losing out to the giggles, ducking the napkin that was impotently thrown at him.  
  
“At least he married me, which is more than you’ve done for my brother,” Suzette said, an edge of irritation to her voice. “Is it too bourgeoisie for you?”  
  
Mycroft reddened slightly at the accusation, and before he could think further on the matter he heard himself say “I would marry your brother in a second if he agreed.”

You could hear a pin drop.

And why was Greg staring so intensely at him?

 

 


	2. An accidental proposition

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I would marry your brother in a second if he agreed.”  
> You could hear a pin drop.  
> And why was Greg staring so intensely at him?

 

 

  
His mouth had raced ahead on the command of his heart without taking the advice of his brain. This had _never_ happened to him before. He knew that in a diplomatic negotiation you _never_ sprang a major surprise on your opponent – at least not without some prior form of consent – unless it was a malicious adversary that you wanted to take down. And Gregory did not figure anywhere on his list of malicious adversaries, not even on the bottom along the likes of enchanted bunnies and Sherlock.

It wasn’t just Greg that was staring at him though. Every Lestrade in the vicinity had eyes the size of honey melons trained on him, an area roughly equivalent to 30% of the moon’s surface.  
  
“Could you all just stop that? Dial down the ocular attack, if you would be so kind,” Mycroft huffed, loosening his tie just slightly.  
  
“My… did you just…?” Greg began, but was interrupted by his mother.  
  
“I think you boys could use a few moments alone. Come on, Jerry, I think a little trip to the off license is called for, I don’t have a drop of champagne in the house. And you can take April upstairs and give her a nap, the poor thing looks absolutely exhausted,” she said to Sue. “No wonder, with all these people, and talk, and what not. Move it, you two!”  
  
A quick scramble to evacuate the kitchen accomplished the task in a matter of seconds, and the door to the kitchen was discreetly closed. Mycroft realised he was suddenly very alone with Gregory in a very quiet kitchen. The sound of the egg timer seemed as loud and obnoxious as a jackhammer to him as it counted down to dinner, every tick inevitably followed by a tock.  
  
He swore he could _hear_ it when Gregory turned towards him and blinked his eyes _at_ him, those ridiculous lashes moving up and down with the grace of a senorita’s fan as he was nailed to the spot by _that look_.  
  
Finally Gregory spoke. “Do you have something you want to ask me, My?”  
  
“Oh, dear. I am so sorry. I really am.” Mycroft didn’t know where to begin his heartfelt apology. If only a hole would open up and swallow him, or a world crisis arise to summon him.  
  
“You’re sorry?”  
  
Ok, obviously he was in even more trouble than anticipated. Gregory hardly ever repeated him, and when _that_ voice combined with _those_ eyes, he knew why Gregory had such a high confession rate at the Yard.  
  
“Of course I’m sorry. More than sorry. I don’t know how that slipped out of my mouth. I did not mean to put you on the spot and embarrass you in front of your family like that.”  
  
“I’m sorry?” Greg sounded a little repetitious, and Mycroft became a little more worried.  
  
“No, no. _I’m_ sorry, I do assure you. I shall find some way to rectify this. You won’t have to explain anything to your parents.”  
  
“No, really, it’s…” Greg began, but faltered, staring at Mycroft, “I’m sorry… but what the fuck are you saying?”  
  
“That, that, that…” Mycroft very uncharacteristically struggled to find the right words. “That I shouldn’t have spoken without prior thought. That I would assume that you would marry me. That it’s all together one thing to have successfully combined our genetics, yet quite another to commit to a lifetime together. After all, April is only our responsibility till she grows up, whereas marriage is for life. I would never presume to expect that kind of commitment to me. Living together, and even raising April, is information I can control and keep out of the public eye, whereas marriage is a matter of public record, and you are in a very public position; I quite understand the nature of the trials you would be facing, and I would never put you in that situation.” Mycroft hid his face in his hands, seeking a moment of relief from the intense pressure he was under, and the mortification he felt at Gregory’s persistent stare.    
  
“So you don’t want to marry me?” Greg said, his voice a little flat. An undertone of unbearable sadness made Mycroft look up instantly.  
  
“I most certainly have not said that. I believe that my untimely utterance was to the opposite effect, albeit it was ill-timed, and rather lacking in any display of amorousness.”  
  
“English, Mycroft!”  
  
“All right. Yes, of course I would want to marry you. Some day. When you’re ready. Maybe when you’ve retired, if you still care for me by then,” Mycroft ventured.  
  
“Still…? Care for? What the fuck is in that coffee you drank?”  
  
Mycroft brazed himself. At least the wait for Gregory’s explosion was over and he would valiantly accept the wrath of his lover for his rash speech. He had been on the receiving end of many expressions of anger from adversaries and other public officials and he knew he could bear it quite stoically. Not quite as well when it was Gregory that was angry with him, but he could crawl away to lick his wounds later.  
  
“Do it right now.” Greg’s tone was rather commanding, but Mycroft could not fit the words to the situation. He looked up at Gregory, a very puzzled expression on his face.  
  
“Right now,” Greg continued, pointing to the floor in front of him.  
  
“You want me to debase myself?” Mycroft was ready to go to extreme lengths to preserve his relationship with Gregory, but perhaps prostrating himself on the kitchen floor was taking it a bit too far. Still, if that was what was required, who was he to argue. He knelt on the floor and proceeded to lie down, facing the floor, his arms stretched in front of him.  
  
“Now what are you doing…? Just kneel, you overdramatic greyhound! You’ve been watching too many Catholic ordinations. Kneel in front of me and propose again. Properly. Like now!” Greg’s voice was beginning to sound a little strained.  
  
Mycroft peeked up at him, rolling his eyes at his misunderstanding before he graciously got up from his prone position and knelt in front of Gregory. His mind reeled at the situation, trying to figure out if Gregory was testing him, teasing him or taunting him. Not that it mattered. If this was what was required of him he would bear any reaction he got. He did braze himself for a thorough taunting, though.  
  
“You require me to propose the state of marriage between us? That is a fair retaliation. I accept your claim, but I must stress that you are under no obligation to consider it, or answer me kindly, or indeed answer me at all.  You are, however, correct in assuming that you are owed a proper tender, which I am more than content to deliver.” Mycroft took Gregory’s right hand in both of his, his thumb absently stroking the tanned skin, wanting nothing more than to lay his chin against it and sleep away the night in Gregory’s lap till the last moonlight had waned.  
  
“Mycroft… love, you don’t have to, if you don’t want to. It’s just… I’m not really sure what it is you want. Do you even know it yourself?” Greg moved around uncomfortably on the kitchen chair, suddenly wishing he was down in Camden town, at the zoo, playing with the lemurs, just simply standing there trying to dodge them shitting on his greying hair.  That, or hauling out stolen bikes from the Thames, which seemed like a wonderful place to be right now, rather than this embarrassing moment, waiting to find out how little or well he was actually loved.  
  
Mycroft saw his discomfort and cleared his throat, making sure he had eye contact with Gregory before he began his speech. He inhaled deeply, and spoke lowly: “If I should live a thousand lifetimes” he began, “I would still regret every second spent without you, and wish to do them all over again for the loss of those few moments. Should the sun rise once, since I have met you, without me finding you beside me in bed I would sue the dawn for defamation. Whenever I find my dinner table set for one, I suffer an immediate loss of appetite; my hunger only subsists when you are there to share the meal with me.  I fear that I would ever take these gifts you bestow on me for granted, if I were to bind you to me with ties you found constricting. Never the less, rest confidently assured that nothing in this world could gild my days like exchanging life altering vows with you, to the extent and effect of my complete dedication to you, to us, to our life today and in the future. I am a lucky man simply by having the privilege of kneeling here, awaiting your justified refusal of my proposal, hopefully with a view to accepting it in the future when you are less exposed in your professional life. When that day comes, would you then, Gregory Lestrade, do me the utmost honour and become my husband, give your life to me and receive mine in return?”  
  
“No,” Greg said and shook his head in exasperation.  
  
Mycroft looked down, sighing heavily, nodding in bitter understanding as his eyes fell shut and his hopes vanished.  
  
“No, I will not someday marry you, just because it’ll be convenient for my job at the Yard at that time. I will marry you now, this very minute, not wait a second longer than I’d have to. And sod the Yard, the homophobic powers that be and public appearances. I don’t care about promotion. It’s only you I care about,” Greg said as he placed a hand under Mycroft’s chin, lifting his face up into a gentle kiss.  
  
Mycroft’s lips were still tingling from the sweet kiss when he regained his ability for speech. “You will? You will jeopardise your career to make a commitment to me?” He was incredulous, knowing how fervently Gregory burned with dedication for his job, taking such pride in it, whether or not he had to haul Sherlock in to help him occasionally.  
  
“I don’t give a toss for anything when it’s compared to the life we have. I love you, you daft left over from last century. I just want to be with you. All my staff already knows about us, and nothing has changed with them, I’m still their DI. Your staff knows about us, and I haven’t heard you complain about rampant homophobia in Vauxhall. So why the fuck shouldn’t we get married? We have a child now, and I’m not going to hide behind a pillar when you pick her up from school. We are her parents, she’ll have two dads, and those two dads are going to be married.” Greg finished his tirade and leant in to kiss Mycroft on the cheek, moving on to nibble a bit at his earlobe.  
  
“Oh, and I’m the conservative one here? You want to marry me because of the child?” Mycroft couldn’t help a small derisive snort.  
  
“Not just the child,” Greg assured him, mainly by biting down a little too hard on the earlobe he was currently worrying with his teeth, “I want to marry you for your body,” he laughed.  
  
Mycroft snorted and turned his head just a smidgen to the right, giving Gregory a little better access.

“Must tell you, though,” Greg snickered, “I nearly lost it when you prostrated yourself. I kept getting these flashes of Bambi on ice, sprawled out like that. You have no idea how hard I had to fight keeping a straight face. You owe me one, just for that!”  
  
“Owe you what?” Mycroft panted, starting to lose a tad of his concentration due to Gregory’s clever, clever tongue.  
  
“A huge wedding. Huge! Think honeymoon and Paris in the same sentence.”  
  
“Why Paris? The view will be the same wherever we go!” Mycroft grinned and pulled Gregory down on the floor, smothering his body with his own, taking his time deftly moving buttons, belts and fabric, burrowing his teeth in the golden, honey coloured skin that would be his for life.  
  
Gregory’s answer was drowned out by the kitchen door opening and a hectic voice announcing, “I’ll just put this in the fridge and check the roast, the boys must be upstairs, and… Sue! Cover your eyes!”

 

 


	3. Creative juices

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The wedding plans ignite creative sparks – to Greg's and Mycroft’s immense regret.

 

The Lestrade family had already practised evacuation of the kitchen once that afternoon, so the repeat performance was executed in record time. After a few minutes, Greg and Mycroft joined the three of them in the living room, where they were busy studying the local papers, or in Jerry’s case, the fall makeup colours of the rich and famous in Hello magazine.  
  
They all casually said hi, and studiously ignored the pretty pink colouring of cheeks. After an interminable while, Jerry broke the awkward silence. “Time for a beer, wouldn’t you say, Greg?” and when Greg enthusiastically nodded agreement added, “and a whisky for you, Mycroft? I still have your brand, it’s too smoky for me, so I haven’t touched it since your last visit.”  
  
“Please,” Mycroft smiled and sat down, usurping Gerard’s Hello magazine, idly turning the pages.  
  
When they were all seated with a drink Shirley couldn’t keep it in any longer. “So? Are you…?”  
  
“Yes, indeed. As you all suspected, anticipated and nearly witnessed. Though it is not completely official till I can put a ring on it,” Mycroft said, putting the magazine away, smiling at the smirk Gregory awarded him.  
  
“Oh, it’s so romantic.” Shirley grinned broadly, sipping her beer. “I almost feel another book coming on,” she smiled dreamily.  
  
“God, Mum! You promised you wouldn’t. You don’t know anything about… manly love,” Greg blushed, as comfortable talking to his mum about this subject as he was with talking to the Yard shrink about _feelings._  
  
“Yes, please Shirley. Thirty-eight successful romantic novels make for quite enough of a bibliography. You know I would have loved to read each one of them; alas time does not permit me. Never the less, I do consider it a significant warning signal when the assistant I assigned to read and create a synopsis of them threatened to quit after reading only twelve because of the monotony of the theme.”  
  
“You are quite right, Mycroft,” Shirley admitted, grinning at him. “Girl meets blonde guy, falls in love, fiddles about with him a little, finds out he’s a bit of a shit, then meets dark-haired guy, who’s not a shit, so she fiddles about with him a bit, but she loves the shit, till not-shit proves the blonde guy is total shit, then she loves dark haired guy and everyone but the shitty blonde lives happily ever after and have some great sex. That story can only be repeated so many times. Well, actually, thirty-eight has worked pretty well thus far. Bought us this house, the cars, my wardrobe, Sue’s education and the annual Cretan vacations, but yeah, I would love the variation.” Shirley downed her glass and held it out for Jerry to refill it.  
  
“Yup, I see it now.” She leant back in her chair and let her creative mind roll down the hill of inspiration. “Grey haired guy meets a guy with long curly black hair and is confused about his sexuality by him, but it’s not till he meets his short haired older brother that he really comprehends that he is bisexual and attracted to the older brother. However the younger brother…” she got cut off there by both Greg and Mycroft.  
  
“Don’t you dare, Shirley, that is just …!”  
“Mum, for fuck's sake, I’ll have your car hauled…!”  
  
“Wasn’t that the oven bell?” Jerry stood abruptly, pulling Shirley up with him and headed towards the kitchen, not even bothering to see if it was just her jumper he had a grip on, or whether his wife was actually following. She was.  
  
“I swear, I will not help her with the research of my… love life and …” Greg began but was cut off by the bout of laughter rising from the vicinity of his sister.  
  
“Give it up, bro. Give it up. Once she has an idea, she’ll run with it. She always has. It’s not as if she doesn’t know how to Google sex between men. You think she still writes with a swan quill and ink, don’t you?”  
  
“No!” Greg pouted. “I know she can master a laptop. I just thought she was done writing smut. She has produced a massive lot of pastel coloured tomes, after all,” Greg grumbled while gesturing up at the bookshelf that held the garishly decorated row of books written by ‘Chastity DesMoines’. At least they were spared the humiliation of her writing under her real name. Greg would not have lived that down at The Yard, not to mention the local pubs.  
  
“Yeah well, as long as her readers will buy her books, why should she not supply them? She still gets fan mail every day, you know.”  
  
“I don’t understand people. I really don’t,” Mycroft sighed. “Why would they want to read about other people having sex? Wouldn’t it be more fun to go out and have some?”  
  
“Mykeer, you are quite right; you know absolutely nothing about people. And definitely zilch about women. Just take my word for it; if mum writes that book, it’ll sell like hot cakes, just like the rest of them.”  
  
April chose this moment to inform the world in general that she was awake and hungry. Now! And the world in general around her sprang into action, fetching her and her bassinette from upstairs, preparing a bottle and supplying her with sustenance. Suzette was granted the honour of holding her while she enjoyed her early dinner.    
  
They were all sitting around her crib, trying to get her to go back to sleep when Shirley and Jerry returned from the kitchen, announcing that dinner was almost ready, the wine aired, the table laid and the sauce sifted.  
  
“The champagne will be chilled and ready in time for dessert, I think,” Shirley said as she stood over the crib, admiring her granddaughter who seemed to be keen on following the conversation. “A double reason for celebrating tonight.”  
  
“I hope you bought plenty, mum?” Greg smiled.  
  
“Three bottles ought to do us, don’t you think?” she smiled back.  
  
“A tad on the skimpy side, but we’ll make do. As you know, I love slumming with you,” Mycroft said and laughed as he received an affectionate slap to the cheek.  
  
They enjoyed the roast, done to perfection, the choice of spices a flawless supplement to the bottles of St. Emilion 2001 that Mycroft had brought. Everyone complimented Mycroft on his choices, and he really enjoyed being complimented. He was rarely the centre of admiration, not counting being caught in the headlights that were Gregory’s eyes. Apart from this, the topics discussed kept reverting to the main event of the afternoon.  
  
“Getting married! Again! My little boy. And to such a nice man,” Shirley said dreamily.  
  
“We should announce the engagement in The Times,” Jerry mused traditionally.  
  
“Again, it won’t be official till I have bought him a ring,” Mycroft reminded them.  
  
“You’re not taking it back, are you?” Greg tried to look miffed, which was difficult with a mouth full of roast and broccoli.  
  
“I am most certainly not, but I am hardly going to go to a tawdry jewellery store in Selfridges on Sunday to get you a suitable ring, now am I?” Mycroft asked as he refilled Gregory’s glass.  
  
“How about a ring for you then? Where will I get that?” Greg wondered if he would have to leave the country to find something to live up to My’s standards.  
  
“I get a ring too?”  
  
“Well, we are _both_ getting married, right?” Greg asked him, a bit puzzled.  
  
Mycroft looked equally puzzled but lit up as he did a quick soul search and found a conclusion. “Oh, yes. It’s only, that I have invariably thought of you as the bride. So sorry. I would love an engagement ring from you. Just not moonstone, or onyx, or amethyst, or emerald, or ruby, please,” he elaborated as he refilled everyone else’s glass too.  
  
“Oh, so basically fine as long as it’s a diamond or a sapphire?” Greg asked.  
  
“You are so attentive. No wonder I love you.” Mycroft turned to give his fiancée a kiss.  
  
“Mum?” Greg begged, brown eyes trained on her in a way that had never failed him.  
  
“Yeah, yeah, I’ll lay out. Consider it payment for using you as subjects in the next book. I’ll change the names of course. It’ll be all about how John met Michael and thought he was perfect, till Elton came around and opened his eyes to the cruel way Michael was treating him and his beloved mum.”  
  
“Oh, mum, _really?_ ”  
  
“Want a really _big_ diamond for him, do you?”  
  
“Fine. Just don’t ever make me read it.”  
  
“Promise.”  
  
“Love you, mum.”  
  
“That’ll get you…” She counted slowly on her fingers, “well it’ll get Mycroft, a three-carat ring, at least. Anything above that will just be garish. Shopping together on Monday, ok?” Shirley patted Greg’s hand, pleased to see how broad his smile was. “Now it’s time for dessert. Made my white chocolate and raspberry pie, can you manage to eat a slice for me, Mycroft?”

  
“For you, for your son, for this day, and for my ring!” Mycroft accepted the challenge and let his belt out a notch.  
  
As Shirley readied the dessert plates Suzette got maudlin.  “My big brother, a married man,” She sighed.  “You know he’s ten years older than me, Mykeer, right? That’s a hell of a difference for siblings.”  
  
“Oh, trust me. I know about that,” Mycroft sighed.  
  
“Well, when I was six, he was sixteen and so gorgeous we couldn’t scrape the girls off the surface of the house with a spatula! It was disgusting. It annoyed the hell out of me that he was such a looker, cause it seemed like such a pointless superpower. Completely and utterly pointless. But then… Diana got married. Mum let me see the whole thing, and we had a street party, and I got cut out dolls with the dress, and I mooned around for weeks finally knowing what my brother was good for.”  
  
“Oh, really?” Greg grinned as he received a champagne glass from his dad who was handing them out while Mycroft opened the bottles. “You never let me in on that secret. What was it?”  
  
“Well, you two were obviously the most gorgeous human beings on the planet, so you should be together, I had concluded,” Sue began.  
  
“Who were? Charles and Diana?” Greg was puzzled but mildly interested in what had been going on in his little sisters’ excuse for a brain at that time.  
  
“Charles? Are you kidding? No, you moron. _You_ and Diana, obviously. You would be perfect together, and it was only a matter of time before she would discover that, now that she was crown princess and all and would tour the country and meet everyone, or you would bump into her when you were near the palace, and she’d immediately recognise you for her true love, and she would leave that ear hat of a husband of hers, marry you, make you a prince, and thereby me a princess. There, your superpower was nailed. Boy, did you disappoint me when you went off to that mundane police school and married that bimbo whom we shall not ever name at the dinner table.”  
  
“Really? You expected me to marry Diana? And that would make me a prince and you a princess? Aren’t you missing a few details in your plan, like that when she divorced Charles she was no longer a princess herself, for instance?” Greg guffawed and had a swig of his freshly poured champagne.  
  
“Come on, I was six! Give me a break,” she laughed. “I may have missed a few crucial details in my plan. It sounded good at the time. My teddy bear totally agreed when I double checked it with him. How was I supposed to know? Anyway, you’ve nearly lived up to it now,” she blew Mycroft a finger kiss and endured his ‘hrmphh’ in answer.  
  
“He’s no princess. He’s a queen,” Greg corrected her and received a harsh bite on his earlobe from her majesty.  
  
“What’ll that make you then?” Suzette wondered.  
  
“Hmm yes, what indeed, Gregory?” Mycroft was equally curious.  
  
“A husband,” Greg answered and raised his glass in salute to Mycroft. They all smiled and mirrored the salute, drinking the champagne and uttering general congratulations.  
  
As they munched on the dessert Shirley wanted to know, “and what name will you take, Greg? Lestrade-Holmes, or will you both just be Lestrade?”  
  
“Oh, I think we very much want the same name as April. So Holmes-Lestrade it is, right My?”  
  
“Absolutely,” Mycroft agreed.  
  
“Hmm, April Lestrade Holmes, a bit of a mouthful,” Shirley mulled it over.  
  
“April Sherlee Holmes-Lestrade,” Mycroft corrected her.  
  
Shirley gaped at him with her mouth open for a second before it split into a huge grin and she placed another slice of her homemade pie on Mycroft’s plate.

 

 


	4. Details of a wedding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A bit of Sherlock’s sordid past is revealed, and a very pleasant night ends in a bit of a surprise.

 

Two and a half bottles of champagne later the mood was very high in the Lestrade family home, and even Mycroft and Suzette were feeling friendly. The conversation invariably kept getting back to the issue of the wedding.  
  
“Church or hall, Mycroft? Town or country?” Jerry wondered.  
  
“Oh, I don’t know. I suppose Anthea will have some ideas how to make such an event run smoothly.”  
  
“We should arrange some of it ourselves,” Greg protested.  
  
“Yes, fine. As long as you promise not to involve Sherlock.” Mycroft looked horrified.  
  
“Why not? He’s turned out as just exactly the fine man I’d hoped for since he found love with John,” Greg interjected.  
  
“Because Sherlock is, for the lack of a better term, like a man possessed with regards to the organisation of such events.”  
  
“Really? He’s a bridezilla?” Greg was honestly flabbergasted.  
  
“Hrmph, I see there _is_ a term then.” Mycroft shook his head at the memory. “Our youngest aunt was getting remarried when he was around thirteen and he completely appropriated the proceedings. He found what he termed suitable procedural precedents for a second wedding; he insisted on deciding the design of her dress, refusing all the suggested venues till he found the perfect one himself. He disappeared in dad’s lab for three days to concoct the perfect wedding cake for someone who was ‘past their prime’, as he put it. Mind you, the bride was thirty-five at the time and not overly flattered by his opinion of her demographics.”  
  
“Doesn’t really sound all that bad,” Greg commented.  
  
“Could have been quite lovely, I’m sure,” Mycroft smarmed, “except I have a feeling she wanted a say in the affair herself, given that she was normally a woman in control. But she never stood a chance around him. He was an expert manipulator, even then. He decided the menu, the cut of the dress, the destination for the honeymoon; somewhere educational, he decreed, so he sent them to the northern parts of Finland on a tour of wooden churches. He chose the hymns, dismissed two pastors till he found a ‘seemly’ one, and wrote the sermon for him. He turned into such a little commander that she even lost the six and a half pounds he ordered her to, following his diet and exercise plan without hesitation. And she agreed to change the colour scheme from her favourite, rose, to his favourite, lavender, based on an extended, exhausting speech by Sherlock, who wouldn’t give in till she caved. He wrote a monograph about it afterwards, and got it published.” Mycroft shook his head at the memory and huffed: “When mum found out that he’d put Viagra in the vanilla sugar she tried to ground him for a week.”  
  
“How did that go?” Greg chuckled, kind of knowing the answer already.  
  
“How do you think?”  
  
“Sulking?” Greg sniggered.  
  
“To such a degree that paint was melting off the walls. She had to let him out of the house within a matter of hours.”  
  
“Ok, let’s decide to keep him well away from the planning of our wedding,” Gregory agreed.  
  
“Done!” Mycroft assured him.  
  
When they were clearing the dishes away, Shirley suggested she could keep April in their room for the night. “Well, you two boys are freshly engaged, I would think a night alone is very much called for,” she explained when Greg asked what had prompted the offer.  
  
“It is most gracious of you, Shirley, and we shall accept your kind offer,” Mycroft told her, taking Gregory’s hand in his. “And make the most of it.” He chuckled when Gregory turned a predictable pink. “Let me just say goodnight to my little jewel, and no, Suzette, that is most emphatically not you. But I do wish you Godspeed as you return to your duties of torturing the society of Croydon on Monday, communist!” Mycroft blew her a requited kiss and disappeared into the living room where April was snoozing happily on the sofa.  
  
Suzette hugged her brother, giving him a wink and a knowing look. “Promise to kill him in his sleep once you’re married, ok?”  
  
“Anything for you, sis, anything. Now piss off home to that brood of juvies before I come arrest them.” He laughed along with her and gave her a slap on the rear. She hugged both her parents for goodbye and bid them all a good night before leaving them alone in the cosy kitchen.  
  
“You’re really happy, right kid?” Jerry asked, grabbing the opportunity to speak to his son alone for a moment.  
  
“Oh yes, quite, dad. I know this isn’t what you expected of me, and I never saw it coming either, but here we are. And I still don’t think I’m gay. No other man can turn my head, but Mycroft… don’t know what it is. Just gotta have him.” Greg grinned while he shook his head at the surprising turn his life had taken.  
  
“I suppose you could have done worse,” Jerry shrugged. “Nice little diggings you two have.”  
  
“Yeah, it’s not bad,” Greg admitted with a big smile. “And he’s building me a swimming pool…”  
  
“Spoiled brat,” Jerry cried.  
  
“You have no idea, dad.” Greg got up to join Mycroft. He halted just outside the living room, though, because he heard the most curious and pleasant sound.  
  
Mycroft was singing.  
  
Mycroft was singing a French lullaby in the most delightful baritone Greg had ever heard.  
  
April was bubbling as Greg snuck up behind Mycroft, looking over his shoulder at his daughter. She was staring at her dads, small bubbles forming at the corners of her mouth while she tried to shove her entire hand into it. She looked happy as a clam.  
  
Mycroft looked up at him and winked once, but didn’t falter in his singing. He sang another two verses, and when he was done April had bought a one way ticket to dreamland for the night. Greg bent down and kissed him on the cheek and took his hand, gently dragging him with him upstairs.  
  
Once in their room Mycroft clutched a hold of Gregory in a snug embrace and began to lick his way around his throat, making his favourite way to Gregory’s mouth via the ears.  
  
Greg cleared his throat before Mycroft could get that far. “Actually, My, I don’t feel too fresh. I’m not sure that I’m up for a roll in the hay, at least not without a proper wash first.”  
  
“Oh? How about we take a shower together then?” Mycroft suggested wisely.  
  
“And that’s why they pay you the big bucks, you always come up with the best ideas,” Greg enthused and started shedding his clothes, hitting the shower only moments before Mycroft joined him.  
  
They huddled together under the stream of warm water, unable to keep their hands off each other. Greg folded both arms tightly around Mycroft and snogged him under the spray, revelling in the soft lips and the playful tongue that met him. It wasn’t long before they both responded and their breathing became laboured. Greg reluctantly broke the kiss and turned his back to Mycroft.  
  
“Right here?” Mycroft raised an eyebrow as Gregory looked at him across his shoulder.  
  
“Yes, please. You haven’t taken me from behind in ages. You know I love it,” Greg pleaded, trying to wriggle his arse invitingly in the closed space.  
  
“You have only ever to ask,” Mycroft assured him and grabbed some conditioner to use in lieu of lube. He coated his fingers and began to slowly insert two of them into Gregory, smiling as he was rewarded with a deep moan upon finding the prostate, gently nudging it with his fingertips.  
  
“Oh God, yes, like that, My. Only more,” Greg pleaded, his hips rocking back and forth to speed up the proceedings.  
  
“More it is,” Mycroft promised and added a finger, snaking an arm around Gregory to hold him steady as the added pressure made him mewl. He slowly increased the speed till Gregory started shaking lightly in his embrace.  
  
Greg crossed his arms against the wall in front of him and rested his forehead on his wrists where they met. “I’m ready, My, I’m so ready,” he whispered, his voice raspy with need.  
  
“Oh, so am I,” Mycroft assured him and quickly replaced his fingers. He pushed into Gregory in one smooth move, feeling how open and loose he already was. The warm water was running down their bodies in rivulets, adding drizzly caresses to their own.  
  
Mycroft closed his lips around Gregory’s right earlobe and started to rock back and forth, slowly building a rhythm that had them both panting hard in a manner of minutes. He kept this exacting pace up for quite a while, but he was still surprised when Gregory started tightening around him.

“Oh fuck, oh fuck,” Greg moaned, his hands slapping the wall as if he was trying to get a hold of it. He started shaking and Mycroft held on tight.  
  
“Are you coming?” Mycroft asked surprised. It wasn’t often that Gregory could achieve an anal orgasm, but when he did it was long and hard, and normally left him shaking like a leaf in Mycroft’s arms.  
  
“Fuck yes, yes! Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck,” Gregory elaborated and Mycroft groaned against his back. The moans alone were enough to make him come, not to mention Gregory clenching around him, but he knew he had to hold on, had to fuck Gregory through it and stave off his own orgasm. He could feel Gregory begin to shake in his arms, and it was answered by first his knees, then the entire length of his legs as he moved inside him, willing himself to continue and not come till Gregory’s spasms had abated. He moved his right hand down, cupping Gregory’s balls gently, rolling them in his hand and was awarded by a deep groan and another litany of barely understandable swearwords. When Gregory eventually pushed his forehead against the wall and wailed a last shuddering moan Mycroft let himself come, ejaculating in long, hard spurts, so hard in fact that a very sensitive Gregory could feel it and moaned along with Mycroft’s sounds of orgasm.  
  
They were both shaking with exertion and abating arousal as Greg turned and pulled Mycroft into a tight hug, his face buried in the crook between his shoulder and neck. He administered tiny kisses to the wet skin as he fought to get his breathing under control, and waited for his muscles to stop trembling. “You’re amazing,” he whispered between heaving breaths.  
  
“Not half as amazing as you,” Mycroft answered, equally short winded. He did, however, recover first and grabbing two huge towels he wrapped one around Gregory, and one around himself.  
  
After cursorily drying their hair they tumbled into bed, huddling up like a couple of love-struck teenagers. They were asleep in a manner of minutes, dreams filled with wisps of white silk and flowery scents.  
   
  
Mycroft moaned in his sleep. It felt so good. So incredibly good! Like waking up as the stuffing in one of his favourite chocolates. Or as a larvae, cocooned in silk and softness, and warmth, and moisture, and he was so aroused he wanted to pant out loud, but he already was, so his hands went to the warm, wet spot between his legs and caressed his lover's hair, short, silvery but silken, cool and smooth. He encouraged the motion up and down on his engorged member, and he slowly came to terms with the fact that morning was creeping into his brain, and his orgasm was lurking right behind his bollocks, which were now expertly caressed and rolled in calloused fingertips, and now it wasn’t just lurking, it was extremely imminent. He managed to growl his customary warning, and Gregory lets go of him with a not unpleasant slurping sound, sitting up and taking him in hand instead. He could expertly bring Mycroft over the edge this way, and he held firm while the whole world was rocking Mycroft, and it was rocking him hard as he came seeing white flashes while biting his hand to keep the sound down, and the world rocked on, and on and on even after…  
  
Gregory sat up at the same time as Mycroft’s brain came back online realising that the entire bed was actually shaking.  
  
“Bomb? Earthquake?” Greg was out of bed in an instant but hit the far wall as he overrated his ability to stand so quickly after delivering such a mind-blowing blowjob, and also the floor might not have been entirely stable.  
  
Then April screamed bloody murder.  
  
Then doors slammed.  
  
Then Mycroft’s phone rang.  
  
“Good morning, sir. I have a helicopter en route for you. If you can just make it across the road to Waddon ponds it’ll pick you up in the corner closest to you.”  
  
“Thank you, Anthea. Any preliminary analysis?”  
  
“Afraid not, sir, that’s rather what we need you for. I’ll meet you in the office in fifteen minutes. Tea or coffee?”  
  
“Oh, I think coffee, don’t you?” Mycroft felt rather drained and in need of a caffeine kick. If he’d anticipated anything of this sort going off on Sunday morning he would not have indulged so heavily in champagne the night before. Why had no warning lights gone off in his intricate system of spies and consultants? As it was he got dressed in a manner of minutes, with Gregory’s help, giving him a short briefing of the situation. Well, basically explaining that they didn’t know anything, and kissed him goodbye.  
  
“Call me the second you find out what’s going on. Promise?” Greg called after him as he descended the stairs.  
  
“Obviously. Just stay here for now and take care of your parents and April. Stay safe, I love you.” Mycroft didn’t have time to listen for an answer as he closed the door behind him and raced over to the pond. The helicopter was landing already, he could hear it. There was a strange buzz in the air as if London was holding its breath.

 

 

 

 


	5. Boom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s bad when things go boom in the night, but even worse when they do it early Sunday morning. Something has gone awfully wrong around London.

  
Mycroft called Greg with the latest news as soon as he had a proper assessment of the situation from three independent experts. “It was an earthquake, not a bomb, thank God, but bad enough in itself. It seems the epicentre was just north of London.”  
  
“So how are things downtown?” Greg wondered.  
  
“No major structural damage detected, but a lot of panic. I’m afraid you’ll have to come in. We’re instating a level of general emergency in greater London, all leave cancelled, all police and hospital staff summoned,” Mycroft said, regret in his voice. “I’ve sent the chopper back to you. It would take you ages to get through town, there’s a bit of road damage here and there, and, it appears, a lot of fallen trees. Call me when you get to the Yard, please. We will have to liaison. I suspect you’ll be the senior officer there till anyone else can get through. Can your parents handle April for the day?”  
  
“What? Yes, of course they can. But are you ok? Is everyone ok? Heard from Sherlock and John?”  
  
“Good. Yes. No. No, now get a move on, and I’ll let you know how this is developing whenever I can.” 

When Greg arrived at the Yard he found a general state of panic and confusion in the few people who had arrived for the Sunday morning watch. He organised them into teams and set them to work checking the infrastructure of traffic lights, getting reports from the prisons, and starting an assessment of the damage done to the old lady, London, herself. Then Mycroft called him.  
  
“Haven’t you arrived yet?” he asked, impatiently, a slight tremor of stress to his voice.

“I’m here, love, we’re just getting organised a bit. There are only about thirty people here yet, though, a bit on the skimpy side of a full watch,” Gregory complained.  
  
“We’ll have to muddle through with what we have. We’re still calling staff in here,” Mycroft comforted him.  
  
“Do you know how bad it is yet?” Greg wondered.

“We’ve never had a quake this close to London before. The preliminary report says around 4.3 to 4.5 in magnitude, but we won’t know for sure for another hour. The epicentre seems to be close to Harrow. We need someone to inspect St. Marks and other vital government installations out there, immediately. Do you have people in the area that can set this up, Gregory?”  
  
“We have a station. I’ll give them a call. I couldn’t keep your chopper here, could I?” he asked, hopefully.  
  
“Oh, I wish I could grant you that privilege, but it is badly needed to evacuate the roy… erm, to pick up key staff and government members.” Mycroft coughed slightly.  
  
“Right, sure. You don’t have to fib with me, My, I can read you like a… well ok, I can in a pinch, but not today, ok? Just say what you want, and I’ll see what I can do.”  
  
“Excellent. Let me know how you get on with the Harrow site, and I’ll let you know what else we need. For now, it would be great to get some officers on the street and report on the level of panic there.”  
  
“Will do, the night watch is still here, deadbeat, but they’ll just have to man up. I’ll let them take a nap in detention later when more people have turned up. Take care, you.”  
  
“You too. “ Mycroft hung up and turned to face his staff, as well as the monumental task of having a full report ready for the prime minister in half an hour.  
  
Greg’s private phone rang after another 20 minutes. “My?” he asked.  
  
“Sorry sir, it's Anthea here.  Mr Holmes is rather busy at the moment, so could I trouble you for a report on the status of the street infrastructure and the general population response that your officers have encountered? I’m afraid we would need it immediately if you would be kind enough to mail it to Mr Holmes. He needs to incorporate the data into a governmental report.”  
  
Anthea didn’t even wait for his answer, but hung up, leaving Greg to stare at the phone, sigh heavily and then sit down by his keyboard. He yelled orders to those unfortunates who were within range, and everyone set to obtaining as much information as possible. Within four minutes they had a passable amount of data that was sent off to Mycroft.

Within a minute Anthea called back. “DI Lestrade, Mr Holmes wonders if it’s possible for you to include an update from Harrow in your report?”  
  
“Afraid not, Anthea, not if you need it right now. The landlines seem to be down, but we got hold of the duty officer on an emergency mobile number. They had not yet assessed the damage to the area, but they said it had been pretty bad. We asked him to make his way over to St. Marks and report back, but we haven’t heard from him. If you need his feedback in the report, I’m afraid you’ll have to give me another two minutes at least.”  
  
There was a muted noise as Anthea covered her phone and spoke to someone. “Granted. This information is too important to omit,” she said. “Please get back to us quickly.”  
  
Once again she hung up without preamble and once again Greg shouted commands. He set everyone to call anyone they knew in Harrow and the surrounding area, and to call every emergency number listed for the department there, to write down what they learned and bring it to him.  
  
It was a dismal picture the little yellow adhesive notes painted. Greg shook his head as he compiled their disconsolate words into a short, comprehensible overview. Roads were damaged badly, trees down all over the place, some landslides had damaged homes in the area, the roads into and out of the hospital area were closed off by debris, and many sewers were flooding. The mobile phone contact was erratic at best, and all land lines were out, so some major cables must have been cut, he concluded. He typed it all out and sent it off to Mycroft. Then he returned to the more mundane duty of finding out how much staff had turned up, which staff were dead on their legs and needed immediate breaks, and who could brew some proper quantities of proper tea and get a hold of some sodding muffins!  
  
It was nearly an hour and a half before he heard from Mycroft again.  
  
“Gregory, I just need to hear your voice for a moment. It’s pandemonium here. How are you holding up?”  
  
“I think we’re doing sort of ok in the circumstances. We’re up to an almost full staff of officers, the older half of the night watch has been released for a nap in the basement, we have a lot of officers as well as… I think fifty-seven or fifty-nine… cars on the streets, double that in motorcycles and I’m getting a steady stream of reports. Some good, some bad. You got your report off?”  
  
“Oh yes, and we’re working on more detailed plans now. I must, however, send more work your way, I’m afraid. You’re still the senior officer there?” Mycroft actually hoped Gregory’s bosses would stay the hell away so that he could work with the man he trusted more than anyone else.  
  
“Yes, afraid so. The commissioner is on a golf holiday in Spain, and the deputy is way up north somewhere and won’t be here till tonight sometime, he’s literally clawing his way through Britain he told me. There’s one super around, but he’s been called to another office in Whitehall, and three others are not to be found, or their phones are off, so I’m it for now, except for a few other DI’s, but I’ve sent them all off to organise  the personnel as they come in, and assign them their duties. We’re managing, but I’m breaking my back.”  
  
“Oh, thank heavens for small favours,” Mycroft exhaled, relieved.  
  
“Really? You’re happy for me to work my butt off here trying to run the MET on my own?”  
  
“Yes, that should give you some idea of what my life is like.” Mycroft allowed a hint of amusement to enter his voice, just for a second. God, how he needed this day to be done with, and instead just feel Gregory’s arms around him.  
  
“Please tell me you haven’t set my superiors up to be unavailable today, just so you can work with me?” Greg couldn’t quite believe it, but he also couldn’t quite not believe it. It was Mycroft Holmes he was thinking about, after all.  
  
“Gregory! What must you think of me? I couldn’t possibly tell you that. But like I said, I’m afraid I have another big task for the Yard.”  
  
“Now what? We’re not exactly idle here, you know.” Greg was beginning to wish his superintendents would turn up, and bloody soon too.  He was used to handling a few hundred members of staff in a pinch, but it was a little mind-boggling to manage thousands in a disaster. Particularly when your fiancée sat there at the centre of control, holding all the key buttons to press.  
  
“Well, until we have had an in-depth survey of all the public buildings we have to close them to the public. Have you got a pen?” Gregory just grunted in the affirmative and Mycroft continued. “Any official building older than 1915 or taller than five stories is closed off until further notice unless it’s residential. That means all the churches, all the museums, parliament, exhibitions sites, the castles and the theatres and…” Mycroft braced himself for the reply, “I’m afraid, the underground and the main bridges.”  
  
“Oh my fucking God, Mycroft!” Greg cried. ”How will we get around? And do you have the first idea how the tourists are going to react to this?” Greg was fighting a losing game keeping his facial features under control. He probably looked horrified. He knew he felt horrified. His London suddenly felt distant, slighted and injured and he wanted to kick someone for hurting her, though he knew Mother Nature wouldn’t care one way or the other if he did.  
  
“We have to. Until we’ve had engineers going over the structure of the old buildings we won’t know how they have held up. You do remember what happened to St. Paul's in the war, right?”  
  
“My, I know I’m older than you, but since I assume you’re referring to the Second World War, let me remind you, that I wasn’t exactly born back th…” Greg felt a little miffed as Mycroft interrupted him.  
  
“Of course you weren’t. I am well aware of that. I simply assumed that you had been educated about these facts in school.” When that statement was met with a heavy, exasperated sigh Mycroft decided it was time to offer an educational explanation. “Shall I enlighten you then?”  
  
“Please,” Greg said curtly, “I have all day.”  
  
“Snide, darling. You’re so pretty when you’re snide. Now shut up, listen and take notes if you have to, time is in short demand. In one of the first years of the bombings, St. Paul's once took a hit when a bomb caught it right in the centre. The entire dome separated from the base of the church by the force of the blast, and it was lifted an entire millimetre from the base of the church before it calmly and ever so very serenely settled back down again, without making too much of a fuss.”  
  
“How very best of British of it,” Greg remarked, hoping Mycroft could detect the snarky part of that comment.  
  
Mycroft ignored it and continued: “The hairline crack is still there today, you know. It circumferences the entire base of the dome. A delicate balance that now may or may not be compromised by the earthquake. So until a team of engineers have crawled all over the inside and the outside we are not letting any tourists or clergy, or anyone else for that matter, in there. The Prime Minister will appear on all the television channels in five minu… no, right now actually,“ he corrected himself, ”delivering a speech to the nation about the earthquake and what we know so far. My office has informed the church, the museum managements, the ministries and so forth, but we need officers in place at major sites, like Westminster, St. Paul's, The Tower, the Eye, well you get the gist of it. You have to allocate men for that, at least two hundred.”  
  
“Oh? Just two hundred? Great idea. Because I don’t’ need them to help people out of damaged cars, get the elderly to the hospital,  manage traffic lights out, cooperate with road maintenance, divert traffic where trees are down, stop looters, and of course just hang around and write endless reports to… well, you guys!” Greg’s voice had a slightly hysterical edge to it, and Mycroft felt he had to cut that short.  
  
“I am sure you will manage quite well, you are a very smart man, and you have all the… wait a minute, what? No!? Right away. Sorry, darling must ring off. I’ll get back to you.”  
  
And just like that, there was no velvet voice in Greg’s ears helping him get through the madness of the day he was enveloped by. And then it got worse. Just so much more worse.  The kind of worse he really hadn’t seen coming.  
  
“Sir? This woman says she is your sister and she needs you urgently. Sue-Bette, or something like that?”  
  
Greg grabbed the mobile shoved in front of his face from the officer he only vaguely knew as Pete Something-or-other and yelled, “Sue, hun? What’s happened?”  
  
“Greg? Greg, is it really you finally?” Suzette sniffled in a voice hampered by tears, snot and panic. Not pretty. Not pretty at all. Not like the kind of panic you see in movies where the heroine is ‘truly appalled’ by what she is experiencing, normally from a safe distance, while her hair looks greater scene for scene as the blood stains just add a sexy effect, highlighting her cheekbones. Sue didn’t sound like that by a long shot.  
  
“Please help me, please? I can’t get hold of them, and dad can’t either, and they are right there, and Scot, our neighbour drove out there to find them an hour ago, but he never called me, and he doesn’t answer his phone either now, and I just don’t fucking know what to do! Help me, please, Greg.”  
  
“Sue, calm down, breathe.” Greg’s training kicked in, and even though it was his sister he knew how to go about getting information out of her, as with any other witness in obvious shock.  “Tell me, in your own time, who is in trouble and where is their last known location, ok? Can you do that for me?”  
  
“My boys, Greg, my boys, Tom, and my sons, they went camping with the scouts last night. In Ruislip, and yes, yes, we know, no fires and all allowed, but who could it hurt? They’re training for their badges, and Tom was there and he’s really good with them, and the took the tent and all, and they would call me this morning, he promised, but they didn’t, and the kitchen is a mess, because all the plates and cups are on the floor smashed, and what is that all about anyway? We don’t have quakes here, and where are my boys? All of them? Why aren’t they just coming home?” Sue ended her last question in a painful inhaled sob.  
  
“Right, Sue. Get yourself a cup of tea. I’ll think of something. So, they are in Ruislip?” Greg was furiously googling the area, as Sue rambled on about scout camping. He went quite pale when the result came up. “Ok, hun, would that just happen to be the national nature reserve out by Harrow?” He counted on his years of experience to keep the terror out of his voice.  
  
“Yes, it’s there. And I bloody know it’s bad. That’s the area they spoke about on the news. That’s where it’s worst, right?” Another sob demonstrated her distress.  
  
“Yeah, it’s sorta what they call the epicentre, but Sue, this is England, ok? I mean, it’s not like we’re on a fault line or anything. We have lots of trees down, and some road damage, and some lights out, and such, but it’s not like Land’s End has fallen into the North sea or anything, so calm down, ok?”  
  
“Land’s End is not anywhere near the North Sea, you idiot, so just get your facts straight and find my sons! Now! Or I will burn all your underwear like I did back in fifth grade when you didn’t get me that date with Ewan. So there! Get me my boys back, please, just get…” her plea died on a sob as she lost it, just lost it.  
  
“I may not be able to get out there personally. I’m sorry, but I am sort of running London along with Mycroft today,  and our hands are full, more than full. But we will find someone, the very best, who will go out there and look for them. I promise! Leave it to me, ok sis?”  
  
“Yeah, I’m… yeah, ok. Just… something, please?” Sue sniffled.  
  
“Yes, something will happen. Now get back to mum and dad’s place, on foot, and very carefully, and help them take care of my daughter while I look for your sons. Fair deal, right?”  
  
“Fair enough, bro. I’ll just text you when I’m there, won’t bother you otherwise. But you call me the second you have any news, understand?” There was a hint of do-this-or-forfeit-your-balls riding on her voice, but Greg would have called her anyway.  
  
“Sure, Sue. Now go. Bye, hon.” Greg rang off and buried his face in his hands before his phone even hit the desk. _Fuck_ , this was not what he needed on a day like today. He took a deep breath and called the one man who could find a needle in a haystack at short notice, or in this case, a couple of scouts in the woods.  
  
“Hello, Sherlock? I need you, and your dog, right now!”

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The story about the dome of St. Paul's Cathedral is, by the way, absolutely true.


	6. Ground Zero

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg is forced to ask Sherlock for help in a desperate plea to find his nephews and brother-in-law.

“What took you so long?” Sherlock scoffed, pretty miffed that John had insisted he stay indoors, claiming his powers of deduction held no sway over an earthquake. “I knew someone would need my help.”  
  
“It’s more Gladstone than you I need right now. You always say he’s the best sniffer dog in England, now’s your chance to prove it.” Greg really hoped that Sherlock hadn’t just been his old bragging self when he’d extoled on the olfactory sense of little Gladstone.  
  
“So he is. He can find a sausage in John’s dirty laundry in less than eight seconds. What do you need him for?” Sherlock narrowed his eyes, which Greg was blissfully ignorant of over the phone.  
  
“It’s my nephews, and their dad. They’ve gone missing after a camping trip.”  
  
“So what? There are no trains running, hardly surprising if they haven’t turned up.”  
  
“Trouble is, they’re in Harrow, and they don’t answer their phones,” Greg explained.  
  
“Piffle. You need neither Gladstone nor I for such a menial task. Just send one of your dull officers up there.”  
  
“I have none to spare, Sherlock. You may not have noticed it, but we’ve had an earthquake. In London! Actually more accurately _in Harrow_ , which is the epicentre, and they are lost out there. I need my best man on it.”  
  
Sherlock was nothing if not easily flattered, and sycophancy went a long way with Sherlock. “It may be worth my time, under the circumstance. If John agrees I might consider it. Description?”  
  
“Tom is thirty-six, tall, as tall as you, same hair colour as John, slightly on the pudgy side. Taylor is ten, brown hair, and Ted is eight. Blond as a summer’s day. And looks a bit like me, everyone says. Please find them, Sherlock, I’m quite worried. By the reports it’s pretty bad up there.”  
  
“Tom, Ted and Taylor?” Sherlock sneered. “Not much imagination in your family, huh? And they managed to get lost all three? How incompetent… Uouufff.”  
  
Greg heard a muffled noise in the background and mentally thanked John for interfering.  
  
“Fine, I’ll go. Last known location?”  
  
“Ruislip woods, shall I send you the GPS coordinates?” Greg drew a breath of relief.  
  
“Oh, please. I think I can manage to find a wood.” Sherlock hung up without hearing Greg’s ‘call me when…’  
  
Greg considered calling Mycroft, but he knew he probably wouldn’t really have time to talk to him so he texted him instead, to let him know about the situation.  
  
Not for a second did he pause to wonder how Sherlock would get to Ruislip with all transport systems down. Sherlock was nothing if not resourceful, and true to form he didn’t waste time living up to Greg’s expectations. Greg figured that less than five minutes had passed before he noticed a report of a patrol car stolen from Marelybone.   _Good_ , he thought _, that means he hasn’t gone alone, then he would have stolen a motorbike_. He shook his head in simultaneous dismay and relief while texting, first Sue and then Mycroft, that Sherlock was on his way, with dog and doctor.  
  
The next two hours were horrible. It’s wasn’t that Greg didn’t have enough to occupy his mind with the constant requests for his attention to one detail or another as he felt he was stitching London back together with needle and thread, but he couldn’t shake the cold feeling in his guts. It didn’t sit well with him that all he could do was wait for Sherlock to get back to him. Mycroft had managed to call him briefly once, only to learn there was no news.  
  
It was late in the afternoon when two things happened almost simultaneously. Greg’s superior finally made it to the Yard and relieved him of his command, and Sherlock called. Greg immediately closed the door to his office, relieved to be ensconced in his little cubicle once again, rather than the buzzing anthill that he’d spent the day in.  
  
“Have you found them?” He hadn’t realised he was holding his breath till he felt a bit dizzy.  
  
All he heard was static noise, but after a while it cleared up, and he heard Sherlock’s voice, though it had a rather metallic quality, interspersed by more static.  
  
“We have …. located ….. site, but Lestrade…. they ….. injured. I need a helicopter …. here, send one.”  
  
“I’ll get one from your brother. Where are they? What’s happened?”  The cold feeling in Greg’s guts spread throughout his body and he fumbled backwards till he hit his chair, and flumped into it.  
  
“Like…. said. Ruislip… west part…. Red flag….open gr…. Land near there. John working… need St. Bart’s …..John, ….he ….. there. “  
  
“What’s happened to them?”  Greg screamed into his phone.  
  
“Tree ….the tent. All three…. Trapped…. Tom conscious now…. kids not…. Possible spinal… jury. Hurry!”  
  
“I’m calling Mycroft now. Hang tight. I’ll call you back right away,” Greg promised him.  
  
“Need to….urgent… talk…brother… imperative. Tell him… a ….nine!  I’m needed ….sewhere now.” True to form, Sherlock just hung up and left the arrangements to Greg.

Greg’s fingers flew over the keyboard, finding the quick dial for Mycroft, hyperventilating as it rang an excruciating three times before it was answered.  
  
“Holmes,” was the curt answer, impatience dripping in a heavy curtain from the one word.  
  
“It’s me.” Greg was too stressed to be annoyed that Mycroft hadn’t recognised the caller number. “Sherlock has found them, in Ruislip. They’re injured. He needs a helicopter to pick them up. How soon can you have it out there?”  
  
“Oh, my god. That bad?” Mycroft wished, as he had many times that day, that he could turn the vivid imagination of his mind off, simply off, if only for a moment, but it just didn’t work that way. It was like having five television channels running simultaneously, one carrying worse news than the next.  
  
“All alive, but yes it sounds like it’s _that_ bad.  Sherlock wants them taken to St. Bart’s. I think. It was a very bad connection.“  
  
“It would make sense. John is well acquainted with St. Barts, and I assume he is administering first aid on the scene. He should continue his work on arrival.”  
  
“But can you free a helicopter. Please?”  
  
“It’s already on the way. Where are they specifically?  Or should we triangulate Sherlock’s phone?”  
  
“Do that anyway. He said they are in the western part of Ruislip Woods, something about a red flag. Tell them to keep an eye out for that.”  
  
“Am doing it now…” Greg could hear Mycroft typing in the background.  
  
“Are you in constant contact with the helicopter?” Greg demanded.  
  
“Something like that, yes.”  
  
“Inform me the second you learn something, please? I have the time. The super got here, so I’m relieved of command and have a whole hour’s break. Which I really don’t need right now, I’m going mental just waiting!” Greg wailed.  
  
“I’ll send a car for you, to take you to St. Barts. I’ll get you off the active duty roster so you can wait for them there. I’ll join you as soon as I’m able of course, but it could be a while,” Mycroft apologised.  
  
“I understand, love, you must be under tremendous pressure. But yeah, almost forgot. Sherlock insists on talking to you urgently, he said it was imperative and something about wine, I think, bad connection.”  
  
“Damnation and hellfire!” Mycroft swore uncharacteristically loudly.  
  
“Why?” Greg was suddenly suspicious. “Why are you damning the nation?”  
  
“Well,” Mycroft afforded himself a full second to clear his throat and neurological pathways, regaining absolute composure and control before continuing, ”do _you_ have time for Sherlock Holmes in the middle of this pandemonium?” Mycroft’s fib was, however, spectacularly unsuccessful. In the current crisis he had forgotten that Gregory was a fully-fledged Detective at the Yard who’d had a full day of honing his skills to perfection.  
  
“Well, yes. I actually _want_ to see him, as soon as possible. With my family in tow.” Greg shrugged as if Mycroft could see it  
  
 “Yes, sorry. Of course you do. That’s not what I meant. I just don’t have time for him at the moment.”  
  
“Bollocks, My! Time issues are never why you want to avoid him. You don’t usually turn him away.”  
  
“I have my reasons to hold him at bay for the moment. Let’s just say, I am as eager as you to get him out of that area. I’ll call you back once the helicopter has located them. “  
  
“Yes, please,” Greg said and once again found himself with a dead phone, the call cut off by a Holmes that needed to be elsewhere.  He took another one of many, many deep breaths he’d subjected himself to that day and started to scour his drawers for a left over cigarette from way back then.  
  
However, shortly after, a chauffeur arrived, carrying a note for Greg’s super, and Greg was relieved of duty for the day and sent off in the car. It was surprisingly easy to get through London, with the lack of busses, and the amount of patrol cars out there, keeping the city in tow. Greg hardly noticed it though as his thoughts were bouncing around in his brain, restless and ricocheting.  Finally he remembered himself and called Mycroft again, requesting a car to be sent for Suzette and his parents. He felt like a bit of a fool when Mycroft told him that they were already on their way to meet him at St. Bart’s. He should have known that My would have thought of that. For a moment he felt the utter mug for forgetting whom he actually lived with.  
  
He was the first to arrive at St. Bart’s. When he flashed his badge the orderly in the reception checked a note and took him up to the roof where he spotted the helicopter in the distance. It looked as small as a fly, and for a second Greg couldn’t for the life of him fathom how it could hold so many people, and hopefully as many lives. He willed it to grow in his vision, and it did. Little by little it became less like a bug and more like a small house descending on his head. He involuntarily took a few steps backward as it came down, even though he knew, in the back of his mind, that he was well inside the safe zone on the roof. The first recognisable thing he saw was, unsurprisingly, Sherlock’s hair against the stark light in the aircraft. The next moment was filled with a flurry of activity as everyone seemed to get off the chopper at once:  medical staff, pilots, Sherlock and John and three gurneys  all flooded the deck.  John seemed glued to one of the gurneys, keeping his hands firmly fixed to a young body as Sherlock ran ahead of them, clearing the way, up to and including brushing Greg to the side so that John had unimpeded access to the lift going down into the hospital.  
  
It took Greg a few moments to recover before he turned around and ran after them. He managed to get into the lift with John and Sherlock, and what turned out to be Taylor on the gurney.   
  
“John. Is he… is he…?” Greg swallowed hard, not able to formulate the question. The kid was only ten, for God’s sake.  
  
“Possible spinal injury.  Poor response to neurological tests. Breathing fairly steady. When aided. Please relax, Greg, and stand back. He is stable and nowhere near terminal.” John rallied off his speech without taking his eyes off the victim for one second, his fingers constantly checking throat pulse, breathing and the portable EEG reader that was attached to the tiny body.  
  
“Th…tha…!” Greg began, but failed to thank John for his effort. _What was the matter with his voice? And why did Taylor look so incredibly grey? And oh, no…. was that his sister screaming as the elevator doors opened on the surgical floor? How had she gotten there so quickly?_ He was in no state to be there for her now, he was too caught up in watching John work so hard to save the boy. But he would have to. He would have to turn and make the effort, give what he couldn’t, not when he was alone, not without Mycroft to make him more than a man, and _… what the hell?_ He _had_ managed to turn, and _there_ was his sister sobbing against Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock’s! When had Sherlock grown up to be helpful to this degree? Who had taught him to stroke her hair and whisper soothing, sensible words about how clever John was, and that Taylor was in the best of hands, and…  
  
“Sherlock! I’ll take it from here,” he heard himself saying _. Was he actually jealous of how Sherlock was handling Sue?_  
  
“Please do,” Sherlock said and turned Sue into his arms, happy to follow John into the prepping area.  
  
Greg caught Sue just in time to turn and watch the lift come down with the next two victims. Tom was barely awake, and Sue broke away from Greg to rush to his side. Greg could tell that he was struggling to focus his vision on her, exhausted and dehydrated as he was, but he managed a few words, passed over chapped lips. “Sorry. Something… happened. Couldn’t control it… Are they ok? Are my boys ok?” he asked with the desperation of a drowning man.   
  
He could tell that Sue struggled with herself for a moment. Be kind or be truthful? A legacy their mum had instilled in them. Sue chose kind and lied through her teeth. “They are both just fine, love. You just get some sleep, get rested, and I’ll see you when you all wake up, I’ll be here, ok?”  
  
“Oh, thank goodness… yeah, may sleep a bit then. You promise, right? They’re fine? Champs they are. Did so well last night even though there were tons of bats around the camp site… I think…” A massive yawn cut his speech off, and an orderly rolled him gently down the corridor without giving him a chance to finish the thought.  
  
“Ted? TED?” Sue turned back towards the lift and her youngest son.  
  
“Please stop screaming, mom. I have a killer headache. And I think Taylor may be hurt. And I didn’t do it, so give me a break, ok?”    
  
“Of course you didn’t do it, darling,” Sue assured him. “And he’ll be fine. Just fine. Just get some rest now.” Sue was instinctively reassured by the lack of machinery and doctors hovering around Ted. And the fact that John Watson hadn’t said a thing about worrying about him.  He just looked dead tired. Pale as a sheet. He yawned mightily to prove her point.  
  
“Can I have some ice cream?” he asked between two huge yawns.  
  
“Why? Does your throat hurt?” she asked, instantly worried that John might have missed something after all.  
  
“No. But I’ve heard you can get all the ice cream you want when you are in a hospital, I may as well.”  
  
“Yes, darling. You’re right. You may as well.” Sue cried with relief that Ted was his good old self, making the most of the situation.  “As soon as you wake up, all you have to do is ask for a flavour, and I’ll get you anything you want. But sleep a bit first, ok darling?”  
  
When there was no answer from him she worried for a moment, but when she bent to kiss his forehead it was met with a hiss of “Vanilllllaaaaaa. Why do you need to ask? Always vanilla! And why do I have to wait till morning? I am really hungry now, so it would be nice if mmm cunnllljustt….have… zzzzzzzzznnnnnnn.”  
  
Sue pinched his cheek and let the orderly roll him off down the corridor as Greg gently led her down to the waiting area next to the surgical ward where Sherlock was waiting for them as John was already prepping Taylor.  
  
Somehow their parents were already there in the waiting area. Greg didn’t think too hard about it, just ascribed it to the ability of Mycroft’s staff, and he was eternally grateful for their infrastructure abilities. He was doubly grateful as he was hauled off around the corner by Sherlock the second Sue had been safely placed in her mother’s embrace.  
  
“I have to talk to Mycroft as soon as he gets here,” Sherlock hissed, his eyes darker and more intense than Greg had ever seen them before.  
  
“Yes, I know. I told him. But why? What’s happened?”  
  
“The earthquake. It wasn’t natural,” Sherlock said, scanning the street below them through the windows, looking for a car likely to carry his brother.  
  
“Not natural? What do you mean” Greg suddenly felt very, very tired.  
  
“I need to speak to Mycroft , but I saw things in Harrow, Lestrade. Things that raised more questions than I can answer. And you know that is not natural. “  
  
Sherlock turned back to face Lestrade head on.  “It is my belief that the earthquake was not created by Mother Nature!”  
  
“What else could it be?” Greg had no idea what Sherlock was on about.  
  
“I obviously mean the opposite.“ Sherlock had very little patience with Greg when his mind was this dull.  
  
“You mean manmade?” Greg suddenly felt very, very tired. “But who could…? How…?”  
  
“I believe my brother may be the one person to shed light on that. If he ever deigns to get here.”  
  
“I’m here, little brother,” Mycroft’s voice boomed as he strode around the corner towards them. “What conspiracy theories has your little mind concocted now?”

 


	7. You make me quake and quiver

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg, Mycroft and Sherlock meet up at the hospital and have a talk about what's happening at Harrow. It is not what Greg was expecting. Not in his wildest dreams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally back. It has been months since my last update due to two factors: 1) I've been extremely busy, which is actually kind of nice when that happens. And 2) my PC underwent a TEF (Total Existence Failure according to Douglas Adams), and it has taken a while to get the old one diagnosed, disposed of and replaced, and the new one set up (wouldn't you just know: I'd forgot my wireless password). But here we are again. Back on full steam.

 

 

 

Sherlock’s coat swirled as he turned to face Mycroft when he rounded the corner. Mycroft, however, gloriously ignored his brother in favour of Gregory who looked like he needed a good long, warm embrace. Mycroft was happily capable of providing it, while Sherlock constantly emitted small sounds of frustration at being so blatantly snubbed, the frequency ranging from mild annoyance to one only audible to canines and John – had he been around.  
  
“You look harried. Has it been absolutely awful?” he asked Gregory, keeping his voice as soft and soothing as he possibly could. He could, a lot.  
  
Greg visibly relaxed for the first time in hours, sagging against Mycroft, allowing his cheek to be pushed to rest against a perfectly padded shoulder, rewarding it with a heavy sigh, enjoying the echo of his breath rustling against the expensive fabric. “Horrible. I think Taylor is badly hurt. I think London is badly hurt. Bloody dreadful day,” he moaned.  
  
“John will fix Taylor, and I will fix London,” Mycroft comforted him.  
  
“But who will fix you? You’ve been at it all day, and now this!“ Greg exhaled heavily, relying on the silken shoulder to sustain him for the moment.  
  
“I was made for days like this,” Mycroft beamed, and Gregory easily believed him.  
  
“You know, you’re quite sexy when you’re this confident,” Greg whispered and pressed a bit closer. “And thank you for sending the driver with a note for my super. It was like being nine years old again, and being excused from school,” he sniggered, and then froze in the embrace. “Damn, I did _not_ intend for _that_ to happen.” Greg mentally kicked himself.   
  
“Oh, don’t worry. It’s a quite common reaction to the pressure you’ve been under today, not to mention the stress you’re under now. The body simply requires some relief, and I shall be happy to provide it tonight when we get home.” Mycroft could not help but feel quite a bit flattered at the obvious attraction his Gregory held for him.  
  
“Mycroft! I need to talk to you this instant. Let go of the inspector. Immediately!” Sherlock protested within the audible range.  
  
“Don’t let me go now, Mycroft Holmes. I implore you,” Greg begged, mortified that Sherlock should see him in this state.  
  
“Sshhh, shhh, rest assured my love, I shall never let you down,” Mycroft promised as he hugged Gregory closer, effectively shielding him from Sherlock.  
  
“I shall be with you presently, dear brother, but first I need a moment with Gregory, and you need to find the helicopter pilot. Last I heard he was roaming the hospital looking for the owner of the dog left aboard his aircraft. Rather careless of you to lose him like that, I’d say.”  
  
“Oh?” Sherlock huffed, insulted at the innuendo that he should be an irresponsible dog owner. “I know for a fact just how many times you have lost Doom when walking her on Parliament Hill.”  
  
“Sorry Sherlock, but Grace Kelly no longer owns the nom de plume of Doom. A well-planned obedience programme has dissuaded her of her penchant for chewing on electrical appliances and charging London from the vantage point of the aforementioned hill. As it turns out, Pavlov was entirely correct and our dog is now a shining example that your Gladstone would do well to follow.” Mycroft hugged Gregory just a little bit closer, rocking them in a small circle so he could keep an eye on his brother. “I think I spotted the pilot by the main reception. You may want to catch up to him before he takes off with your canine. I doubt your good doctor would take kindly to you losing him. Again.”  
  
Sherlock shouted something vaguely resembling a promise about returning in a jiffy, and not to tell John, as he disappeared down the corridor and Mycroft could finally bury his fingers in Gregory’s hair, pulling it back so he could bend his head and use his tongue to part Gregory’s lips. It was the elixir he had craved all afternoon and he fed on it, reviving his mind and soul.  
  
Greg allowed the storm to abate from his mind and his soul to reboot as his lover invaded him, claiming all his vantage points, easily winning the battle over his emotions. He sighed into the kiss, happy in the knowledge that however things turned out, he would forever be in Mycroft’s arms and Mycroft in his.  
  
The kiss deepened, but even though it was quite intense it had a soothing effect on Greg’s disposition to such a degree that when he heard the hard fall of heals closely accompanied by a sound like a secretary typing really fast on an old fashioned typewriter he was ready to face Sherlock and Gladstone, even though it was with a heavy heart that he parted physically from Mycroft with one last peck on the slightly swollen lips.  
  
“I am grateful to see you’ve ceased your display of public indecency,” Sherlock said with a shudder as if he was casting off the mental image of his brother kissing. “May we now talk about the rather obvious elephant in the earthquake?” he asked just as an orderly rounded the corner, evidently having tracked him.  
  
“Oi mate. No dogs allowed in ‘ere.” He pointed at the offending Gladstone, who looked quite oblivious to the fact that he was disallowed, and tried to get to know the orderly better by sniffing at his shoes.  
  
“Police dog,“ Greg said, holding his badge up and waving the guy out.  
  
“Whatever do you mean, Sherlock?” Mycroft asked, his face an inscrutable mask, revealing nothing of the computations, calculations, machinations and internal debates going on inside his skull.  
  
“The epicentre in Harrow, Mycroft. You know something is going on there,” Sherlock scowled.  
  
“Obviously. It’s the epicentre of an earthquake. There’s quite a lot going on there, I’d say.”  
  
“Don’t patronise me. You know what I mean. I’ve been there, I’ve observed things.” Sherlock took a menacing step closer to Mycroft, and Greg instinctively moved between them, his protective streak automatically activated.  
  
“Yes, I know you tend to observe. Sometimes just that bit too much.” Mycroft put a soothing hand on Greg’s shoulder. “Whatever you think you saw in Harrow, you’d do well to let it go.”  
  
“Oh, Mycroft.” Sherlock’s voice dropped with amusement. “You know me better than that.”  
  
“Yes, unfortunately.” Mycroft sighed heavily, pinching the bridge of his nose with two fingers to stave off the particular kind of a headache only Sherlock could bring on.  
  
“So why were there Special Forces crawling all around the place? Why did my phone work so erratically out there? Why did my watch stop, and John’s didn’t? Would you like me to reach my own conclusions or would you care to fill me in?”  
  
“It’s… classified, Sherlock,” Mycroft attempted.  
  
“Oh, bullshit. There’s nothing you don’t share with Greg under the sheets anyway, so you really ought to enlighten me as well. At least I can be of some assistance to you with whatever this attack is.”  
  
“Attack?” Greg looked from Sherlock to Mycroft, horror deepening the folds around his eyes. “Is he right? Isn’t this a natural phenomenon?”  
  
“I’m afraid he may have a point,” Mycroft admitted, gritting his teeth against the whoop of annoying self-confidence from Sherlock and the frown of apprehension from Gregory.  
  
“Wha…? What is really going on here, Mycroft?” Greg’s haunches were beginning to rise.  
  
“There is some indication that a weapon of unknown origin has triggered the tectonic plates around the city, and that it was set off in Harrow Cemetery.”  
  
“Something magnetic?” Sherlock demanded.  
  
“There are clear indicators suggesting something in that direction, yes.”  
  
“Not a device known to you or under your control then.” That was a statement from Sherlock rather than a question, and it stirred Greg’s need to be included in the conversation. He closed his jaw when he realised it hung open and tried a constructive contribution.  
  
“Not an earthquake then?” He winced, disappointed that his brain hadn’t come up with a more profound question.  
  
“In a sense no, except yes,” Mycroft elaborated.  
  
“Darling, you’re clear as mud!” Greg complained.  
  
“Well, no – it didn’t start as an earthquake, but to all intents and purposes it certainly evolved into one, with all the repercussions of that type of disaster to follow.”  
  
“But who would….” Greg began but was interrupted by Sherlock.  
  
“Good! Now you’re finally asking the right questions.” Sherlock afforded Greg a benevolent smirk. “Who would and indeed could set off such a device near London? And particularly, Mycroft, why? What was in that cemetery that attracted such drastic attention?”  
  
“It’s not what was in it. It’s what was underneath it,” Mycroft offered.  
  
“Of course. So no need for guards,” Sherlock concluded.  
  
“Obviously not,” Mycroft agreed.  
  
“Hmm, location, location, location,” Sherlock chuckled. “Not an overrated expression.”  
  
“It has its advantages.” Mycroft managed to look smug.  
  
Greg looked between them like a spectator in a tennis match, feeling a bit off his game.  
  
“Deep then. Old, I take it?” Sherlock had dug his phone out and was looking something up.  
  
“Not old by British terms,” Mycroft corrected him.  
  
“Of course not, bother dear, couldn’t be much more than a couple of hundred years. Blood?”  
  
“Well, he was certainly the inspiration.” Mycroft shrugged.  
  
“So this wasn’t the first hide-away?” Sherlock’s fingers flew over the keypad on his phone.  
  
“Not the first, nor the only one. Sound principles have been applied.” Mycroft added his favourite smirk, only to be rounded on by Sherlock again.  
  
“Yes, but not by you. By far cooler heads, long before anyone had considered the oxymoron of Military Intelligence.” Sherlock pocketed his phone and made eye contact with Mycroft again.  
  
Greg almost laughed. At least he would have if he had any idea what the two of them were talking about. He had a vague idea it had something to do with a cemetery, history and blood, he just couldn’t figure out how it was related to the present circumstances. He ventured a question to quell his impatience. “What are you on about, you two? What’s under Harrow?”  
  
“Harrow cemetery,” Sherlock corrected him. “Something buried deeply, in a vault, I surmise. And costly. No!” he said on a sharp inhale. “…priceless even. Something buried so deep Mycroft didn’t even need to guard it. In a place where guards would look out of place. Mycroft thought it safe in its resting place. Are you with me so far, Lestrade? But what would one need to keep hidden? No suggestions, inspector?”  
  
“Err…” Greg heard himself offer, his mind buying a little time to catch up with the Holmes brothers. He felt ok to venture a few suggestions though, to save his honour.  
  
“The football world cup trophy?”  
  
Sherlock actually sniggered, Mycroft looked appalled.  
  
“Next week’s Lotto numbers?”  
  
“Really!” Mycroft huffed, looking almost hurt.  
  
“This year’s Beaujolais nouveau?” was met with giggles in unison.  
“The key to the bank of England?” encountered a few sighs.  
“An undiscovered Shakespeare manuscript?” was at least awarded a wry smile from Mycroft for creativity.  
“The lost Vermeer?” bumped into indifference from both his listeners.  
“The holy grail?” Mycroft blew him a finger kiss, winked, but added: “quite assuredly not.”  
“Excalibur?” – “Time to move on,” Sherlock suggested, making a rolling motion with his right hand.  
“The philosopher’s stone?” got a _‘what?’_ out of Mycroft, and a _‘get real’_ from Sherlock.  
“The crown jewels?”  
  
“Yes, but only the crowns,” Mycroft owned.  
  
Greg gaped.  
Sherlock smirked.  
Mycroft shrugged, pulling up his upper lip in a regretful smile, then opening his hands in his ‘but-what-can-you-do' gesture.  
  
Despite being baffled beyond what he considered reasonable, Greg was the first to recover and speak. ”The crowns? But _only_ the crowns?”  
  
“Yes, as I stated. St Edward's Crown, the Imperial State Crown, Queen Mary of Modena's State Crown, Queen Mary's Crown and the Queen Mother's Crown. They were all kept in an exceptionally safe vault under the cemetery.”  
  
“Not safe enough.”  
  
“It’s not like you to state the obvious, Sherlock,” Mycroft said, on the verge of losing patience with his little brother.  
  
“Why were they there? What is it we keep in the Jewel House in The Tower then?” Greg tried to do a mental calculation of how much manpower they wasted there per year but decided to file that away till later.  
  
“It has been found advisable to keep the originals in an undisclosed location ever since Thomas Blood very nearly got away with their theft. We have kept some rather refined copies at The Tower instead,” Mycroft explained.  
  
“Stolen? Not on my shift,” Greg protested.  
  
“No, certainly not my love. We are talking about Colonel Blood.”  
  
Greg spluttered. “But that was like… a thousand years ago.”  
  
“Not quite that bad, it was in 1671, May, to be precise,” Sherlock filled in.  
  
“Oh, so only around 400 years of deception.”  
  
"Barely 345," Mycroft exhaled  
  
“Oh, that’s alright then,” Greg sneered. “Is any of it real?”  
  
“Oh, sure, absolutely. Both the robes and the Christening fonts are real. Well, one of them,” Mycroft admitted.  
  
“So the rest? The orbs? The sceptres? The silverware? The mazes?” Greg demanded.  
  
“Copies at The Tower. The originals… dispersed around London.”  
  
“So when you asked me to pull a mere 200 officers around the city to close off historical sites and museums it wasn’t as much to protect the tourists and visitors as to safeguard the nation’s baubles.” Greg performed a rude gesture that was largely ignored.  
  
“A bit of both, actually.” Mycroft attempted an almost apologetic smile.  
  
“So where is the rest?” Greg demanded, which made Sherlock look up and pay attention.  
  
“A good deal of it is in the crypts beneath St. Paul’s. Some are under one of the lions on Trafalgar, some are beneath the new British Library, we felt a need for a modern touch a few years back, and the rest is here and there. Safe. For now, at least.”  
  
“And the crowns?” Sherlock asked. “Lost, I presume?”  
  
“You may presume. That’s all we can do at the moment. The level of magnetism at the site is too high to risk sending anyone down to the vault, or what remains of it. But yes, we do anticipate to find it empty.”  
  
“Oh, God!” Gregory suddenly realised something. “The Kōh-i Nūr… is it…?”  
  
“Affixed to the real crown, so yes, that too,” Mycroft confirmed his fear.  
  
“And who knew the set in The Tower is fake?” Sherlock’s eyes bore deep into Mycroft’s, no hint of a smile, and Greg could have sworn that his eyes were more black than blue and very very narrow. “Who has been close enough to them to spot it? So close he actually wore them? Who has the capacity to instigate a natural disaster without any regard to the collateral damage?”  
  
“But… but he’s dead!” Mycroft protested.  
  
“So was I. So is he?” Sherlock wondered, taking a few steps back on shaky feet, finding an uncomfortable hospital chair to sit down in.  
  
  


 

 


	8. Don’t leave him alone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Is Moriarty responsible for the earthquake in London, if indeed it was an earthquake? Sherlock has had his world rocked, and not in the way he likes it when John does it. And he does not handle it well as old instincts take over. Not at all well.

 

 

 

“I…I… I am sorry,” Greg said to Sherlock, shocked to see the younger man sitting so pale and visibly shook, “but I have to go see how my sister is doing, and what is happening with my nephews.” He pointed across his shoulder towards the ICU waiting room. “Mycroft, will you…?”  
  
Mycroft waved him off with a smile, giving him a small peck on the cheek as he whispered: “Go attend your sibling, as I shall attend mine. I’ll join you later.”  
  
Greg wished he could had been in on the conversation, but tough choices made slaves of everyone, so he rushed down the hall to the intensive ward where Ted and Tom were recuperating while Taylor was in surgery. He found his mum and dad almost wrapped around Sue in the waiting area, all of them pale from anxiety.  
  
“Any news?” he asked as he joined them in the universally uncomfortable plastic chairs, designed to make sure no one could relax for just a second while waiting for life changing information on a loved one.  
  
“Yes… they’ve…err… they’ve…” Sue had to clear her throat twice before she could continue, “they’ve brought in a neurosurgeon, about ten minutes ago. But Dr Watson is also still there. Other than that, they haven’t told us anything.”  
  
“Well, no news is good news…” Greg began but was interrupted.  
  
“Don’t you feed me that bullshit, big brother.“ Sue slapped his arm, quite hard. “We both know that’s just something you say when you don’t know what the frack to say to people in real distress. Don’t you fuck with me! I’m a politician, a wife and a mother!”  
  
“Yes, love. I’m sorry. What can I do?” Greg felt quite helpless as he hugged his sister, vaguely aware that Mycroft’s footsteps could be heard approaching. Not exactly a long talk with Sherlock then.  
  
“Where is that wonderful man?” Sue asked, looking around when Mycroft entered the waiting area, alone.  
  
“Mycroft? He’s just arrived…” Greg managed before he was interrupted.  
  
“No, not that useless fiancée of yours, that maniacal idiot who manhandles my brother.” She winked at Mycroft over Greg’s shoulder. “But the man who found my boys, and brought them back. The tall, polite gentleman who held me and comforted me by the elevator.”  
  
“Wha….? Sherlock? ” Greg thought Sue was pulling his leg. ”Polite? Sherlock, the gentleman? Now, there’s a description I’ve not heard used about him since… since… oh, since never, actually.”   
  
“Yes, him. The hero of the day,” Sue said as she pulled out of the hug to glare at the both of them. “He’s the one who went out there to find him. Neither Mr Scotland Yard nor Mr British Government seemed able to do anything. So kindly speak of him with some reverence in your voice,” she chided them.  
  
Mycroft and Greg exchanged a look that held more emotion than they were able to utter. It quickly became clear to Greg that Mycroft was fighting hard to withhold a grin. That would have been inappropriate at the moment, to say the least. With a herculean effort Mycroft composed his features and answered Sue calmly, “I shall appraise my younger brother of your sentiment next I see him, to be sure.”  
  
“Yeah, you do that. Finally someone in the family who knows how to behave. I certainly hope you’ll make him your best man at your wedding, Myke!”  
  
“Possibly not,” Mycroft owned.  
  
“Then you don’t know what’s best for yourself, and I shall help you change your mind,” Sue informed him, jutting her chin up at the taller man.  
  
“Speaking of the perfect gentleman, weren’t you supposed to have a chat with him about the… err… cemetery incident?” Greg wondered.  
  
“Hmm.” Mycroft rolled his eyes.  “He was not communicative. You know what he’s like when he withdraws into his mind. We shall have that talk later, but for now I’d rather be with you than a sulking introvert.”  
  
“Oh, speak nicely of your brother,” Sue said and was about to berate Mycroft further when the door opened and John came in, looking tired and worried, still in scrubs.  
  
“Hi all,” he said, managing a small wry smile. “I’m… I’m done in there.”  
  
“It’s finished, surgery over?” Greg said, stepping closer to Sue to place a supporting arm around his sister who was looking even paler suddenly.  
  
“No, not for a while I think, but the neurosurgeon has it now. I was just in the way, so I thought I’d come join you guys.”  
  
“So, how is it going?” Sue asked, her voice quavering just a fraction.  
  
“He’ll live, don’t worry about that, but his back… it’s, yeah, it’s a bad spot to have an injury. It’s something that can heal completely or leave him paralysed. But the surgeon is really good. Really good, Sue, so keep your hopes up,” John afforded her a tired, encouraging smile.  
  
“How much longer?” she asked.  
  
“I frankly have no idea, but not long, I think. How is your husband and the kid doing?”  
  
“Oh, they are fast asleep. They were exhausted. The nurses have promised to come and get me if they wake, but they’re not likely to move till the morning last I heard.” Sue sat down next to her mother, squeezing her hand, attempting to put on a brave face.  
  
“That’s good though. Right?” John said and turned to Mycroft. “Where’s Sherlock? Thought he’d be with you. He kept mumbling about seeing you on an urgent matter as we flew back.”  
  
“Yes, we’ve talked,” Mycroft acknowledged, “but he’s incommunicado at the moment. Deep in thought!” Mycroft managed to infuse a world of disgust into that last word as if Sherlock’s way of thinking was a waste of brain matter.  
  
“Where is he?” John frowned.  
  
“He’s just around the corner, down the hall. I left him sitting in a chair to do his sulkin… err… thinking,” Mycroft amended last second.  
  
“Right, I’ll just go see how he is. I’ll be back in a jiff.”  
  
Later Greg wondered how the hell Sherlock had managed in such a short time, but then, it was Sherlock, and when it came to creating havoc he was a master of masters. So when he heard John’s panicked voice shouting something down the hall in short order he reacted as he normally did when Sherlock was in trouble and spurted towards the sound, Mycroft sharp on his heels.  
  
“What’s the matter?” he panted as he rounded the corner and saw John bent over a figure on the floor.  
  
“He’s… I don’t fucking believe it… how did he manage? He’s overdosed. Greg, Mycroft, help me pick these up and identify them.” John gestured towards several packs of pills lying on the floor, next to the prone body of Sherlock.  John ran down the hall looking for a phone, but instead he came back with a gurney.  
  
“Found this. Help me get him on it. I have to get him down to A&E. We need to pump him out, and get him started on some treatment. Have you got all the drugs?”  
  
“Yes, I think so, I have two different kinds,” Greg said, grabbing the front of the gurney and pulling it towards the lift.  
  
“Give them to me,” Mycroft said and ran ahead, pushing the button for the lift, turning to take the packs from Greg as he caught up. “Hmm… same kind as I found. So only Diamorphine and Buprenorphine.”  
  
“Well, that’s a relief,” John snarled, snatching the packs from Mycroft’s hand, examining them himself. “What the hell has happened to him? He was fine last I saw him, nowhere near something like this.”  
  
“He... err... he had some shocking news,” Greg said tentatively.  
  
“Don’t tell me he’s scared of earthquakes. What the blazes, just what the fucking blazes would set this off?” John was beginning to seriously worry, wondering if the lift would ever descend to their floor.  
  
“There is some evidence that someone resembling or close to Moriarty, if not the man himself, may have been involved in today’s not quite natural disaster,” Mycroft owned.  
  
“What? WHAT?” John’s jaw nearly dropped and he only managed to restrain himself from physically shaking Mycroft because the lift arrived, and they became busy loading Sherlock on to it, and getting down to the ground level. “You smacked him with that little jewel of information and then left him alone in a hospital? Apparently near a medicine room? With access to hospital grade morphine! Are you suffering from particularly over-active brain farts today?” John’s rant ended on a high pitch. “Sherlock, Sherlock? Come on, wake up, you wanker,” John entreated, slapping Sherlock gently on the left chin but getting nothing but a faint moan in response.  
  
Mycroft looked suitably insulted, but decided it would be beneath him to dignify the slur with an answer. Instead he pursed his lips and concentrated on the state of his little brother. He became somewhat worried when he noticed how erratic his breathing was. “Shouldn’t you make him throw up or something?” he wondered, looking at John.  
  
“I’d rather get some coal into him, or have him pumped, or… I’ don’t know. I’m not an internal meds expert, I’m a surgeon, you bloody excuse for a piss poor big brother.”  
  
Mycroft offered no answer but helped pull the gurney out as they arrived at the ground floor, following John in as he yelled for assistance, but was pushed away as Sherlock was surrounded by medical staff and transferred to a table. He suddenly found a curtain pulled between them and felt himself dragged back by Greg.  
  
“Give them room to work, My, these guys know about OD’s. Trust me.”  
  
“Yes, but how could I have missed the signs? I know a code lock system won’t keep Sherlock out of a room, but I never thought he’d go to this… there were no warnings signs.” The slight tremor to Mycroft’s voice told Greg volumes about just how hard this had hit his lover.  
  
“It’s not your fault, you know. You’re literally not your brother’s keeper. He’s smart enough to know not to do that. Or not… as the case may be. Ok, not smart at all, actually,” Greg maintained and then grabbed Mycroft for a hug, a rather prolonged one.   
  
An interminable age later John appeared, looking about fifty years older, grey and grim, as he strode up to Mycroft and Greg.  
  
“How is he?” Mycroft had to concentrate in order to keep the worry out of his voice, and he didn’t quite make it as far as Greg was concerned, but John didn’t care about such details.  
  
John’s face lit up in a smile for a second, before it closed into a thundercloud again. “He’s fine. That is till I take him home and kill him.”  
  
“Ah, business as usual then,” Mycroft offered a tight smile.  
  
“Not quite. This one is a bit different, I’m afraid,” Greg grimaced.  
  
“What do you mean?” John asked, his haunches instantly up.  
  
“I’ll have to take him in when he’s better, but right now I’ll settle for arresting him and cuffing him to the bed.”  
  
“What? Why? You’ll do no such thing.” John placed himself squarely in Greg’s way.  
  
“It’s not really like I have an option, I’m gonna have to do it,” Greg regrettably informed them.  
  
“No.” Mycroft merely said, just that one word. Gregory looked at him with the most melancholic look he could conjure up.  
  
“I have to arrest him, Mycroft. I’m a cop! And he pilfered meds from a hospital. A public building! It’ll be caught on bloody surveillance TV!”  
  
“No, it won’t,” Mycroft stated dryly, finished typing something on his phone and then hurried to inspect his fingernails.  
  
“Mycroft!” Greg glared at him furiously.  
  
“I’m sorry, but we simply can’t put Sherlock in jail. We couldn’t handle the daily riots.”  
  
“We’re going to ‘talk’ when we get home,” Greg promised him.  
  
“Can’t wait.” Mycroft managed a tight smile.  
  
Greg glared at him, gave John a curt nod and strode back down the corridor to the lift. “I’m going back upstairs.” He didn’t wait to see if Mycroft followed him.  
  
John gave Mycroft a look that bordered on pity, and shrugged. “Thanks for getting him off the hook, but fucking never, and I mean never, leave him alone in that state again, not so bloody close to drugs. How could you… I mean no one knows him like you…”  
  
“I miscalculated.” Mycroft admitted. “I thought that since he and you… connected… he no longer used.”  
  
“Never underestimate a drug addict, Mycroft. It’s always there. Right under the calm surface, the crazy curls and the blinding smile. The junkie will always live under his skin, and if he’s frightened – not that he’ll ever admit to being frightened – his resolve will crack if he has easy access to drugs. And I don’t care how many clever locks and alarms you put on a door. Putting Sherlock next to a medicine room is easy access to him. Which he just proved. Speaking of… I better get back.” He pointed across his shoulder to the cubicles hiding the patients.  
  
“Keep me updated?” Mycroft asked, uncharacteristically humble.  
  
“Course,” John promised and left.  
  
Mycroft took a moment to make a mental note of what John had told him, and sent Anthea a memo to upgrade the surveillance on Sherlock’s known drug-dealers. Again. He quickly got a reply, including a status report. Relieved that things were reasonably calm under the circumstances, and after taking a few deep breaths he turned to go back to the waiting room and face the music and the Lestrade gang. When he entered the room the scene hadn’t changed much, only instead of John the neuro-surgeon was talking to the family, their faces rapt with concentration. Mycroft hurried to Gregory’s side.  
  
“What does it mean?” Greg asked, automatically making room for Mycroft to join them.  
  
“It’s too early to tell, by a long shot,” the surgeon said, exhaling deeply, running a hand over tired eyes. “I have done everything I can; only time will tell if he’ll walk again or not. He won’t be able to move for a couple of days at all, he’s restrained in his bed. His spine needs recreation before we can test him. We’ll keep him fairly well sedated for that period. I’m afraid he’s too young to understand why he can’t move otherwise. Can you approve of this treatment?” he asked addressing Sue.  
  
“What? Yes… yes of course. If you say… so he won’t… wake up?” Sue asked, her voice not entirely steady.  
  
“No, not really. Not until tomorrow at least. Then we’ll see. I’ll check on him tomorrow afternoon, but for now he’s resting very comfortably in recovery, and we’ll keep him there for the time being. You should all go home and rest up. You will probably be spending a lot of time here once he’s awake, so take this opportunity to get some rest yourself.”  
  
“Oh. You really think so?” Sue frowned.  
  
“Yes, you’ll do him no good if you’re exhausted. Anyway, I have to go now, I’m sorry, but I have other patients.” The surgeon excused himself and left the family alone.  
  
Mycroft was, as usual, the first to regain his wits and make plans.  
  
“Right. Off home with us. May I suggest we all stay at my… err… our house tonight?” he amended as Gregory glared at him. “It’s a lot closer to the hospital, we have plenty of room, and a car and driver on alert at all times. All right, Sue? Everyone is asleep here, and I know we could all use a meal and some rest.”  
  
“Kind of you to offer Myke,” she acknowledged, too tired to think of any reason not to follow his suggestion. “Is it okay with you mum, dad?”  
  
“Sounds like a fantastic idea. Thanks for offering, Mycroft,” Shirley agreed.  
  
“Mmm, I’d quite like to have another look at that bar of yours, Greg,” Jerry smiled, patting his son on the back.  
  
“Good, I’ll call the driver,” Mycroft smiled and lifted his ever present phone to his ear.  
  
In short order they were on their way to the great house on Rosslyn Hill and as they approached Greg spotted an unfamiliar shape on the roof. As they got closer he recognised it.  
  
“Mycroft! Have you had a helicopter squatting on our house all day?” he burst out.  
  
“Obviously,” was the curt answer. “You didn’t think I’d leave April and the nanny without means of a rapid evacuation in the middle of a London disaster, did you?”  
  
“We’ll talk about overkill too, when we’re home,” Greg informed him.  
 

[ ](http://pic20.picturetrail.com/VOL154/13724366/24676370/412104089.jpg)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	9. Remembrance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arriving home, there are a few lose threads to settle. And re-knit.  

 

 

“Shall we get everyone settled in a guest room before we dig out some dinner?” Greg suggested as they all bustled into the hall. “Miles, three extra guests for dinner, but we’re not very hungry, so I hope it isn’t a problem?” he informed the butler who was busy taking their coats.  
  
“Not at all, sir. I’ll defrost a Shepherd’s Pie if that will be satisfactory?” He paused and receiving a quick nod from Mycroft continued, ”…then if you will please follow me, I shall appoint a suitable room to you and ascertain how we may be of help with procurement of nightly accoutrement.”   
  
“Oh God! Doesn’t he speak English?”  
  
“Do not worry yourself, Gerard. Miles is merely asking what you will need to sleep in, and such,” Mycroft translated.  
  
“And such? Do you keep extra wardrobes around for guests?” Jerry wondered.  
  
“We are fully capable of finding suitable clothing for you for any occasion sir, but I am merely enquiring about your need for accessories, such as a toothbrush, hairbrush, does sir prefer electric or manual razor and so forth,” Miles elaborated.  
  
“We don’t stay over here nearly often enough,” Jerry remarked to his wife as he gestured for Miles to lead the way.  
  
“I’m afraid I will need some time to catch up with the affairs of today,” Mycroft remarked to Gregory as they were left alone in the hall. “Can you manage to entertain your family while I am engaged in this?”  
  
“Yeah, course. As long as you remember you are primarily engaged to me,” Greg managed a smile. “Think you’ll be long?”  
  
“Quite frankly, I do not know, it rather depends on what may have transpired over the last hours. It’s sticky business, sticky business.” He shook his head. “Do you think you can find a moment to catch up with John and get a status on my brother’s condition?”  
  
“Sure, I’ll do that,” Greg promised and gave Mycroft a nod before going down the hall to his den. He was fairly confident his parents would seek him out there when they came back down. He poured himself a pint, filling the glass to the brim before settling in a chair, getting out his phone. When he was done with John his parents had indeed joined him and were helping themselves at the beer tabs.  
  
“Sue not coming down?” he asked.  
  
“She’s on the phone to the ward, just wanted to check up on them,” his mother explained.  
  
“Ah well, it’ll take more than a pint to get her to relax tonight, I’m afraid,” Greg smirked. “Mycroft has to work for a while, but I hope he’ll join us for dinner. What a day… can you believe it?”  
  
“Thankfully not your standard Sunday,” his father agreed, sipping his lager. “Nothing like this happened while I was on the force, and I’m bloody glad for that. Is it true that you ran the whole bloody Scotland Yard by yourself today?” There was considerable pride in the look Jerry gave his son.  
  
“Yes, dad. All alone. I directed the traffic, made the tea, secured the prisons, cordoned off the bridges…” Greg began but was cut off.  
  
“Don’t you be snide with your dad, you’re not too old to go over my knee!”  
  
“Yes, I am actually, mum. But sorry… it was just one hell of a day. And yes, I was in charge of the Yard for most of it, but I had bloody competent people around me. I definitely did not do it alone.”  
  
“No, of course not,” Jerry agreed. “Still… you ran the place. Not bad for a DI. And in a crisis too.”  
  
“It wouldn’t have happened if it hadn’t been a crisis,” Greg shrugged and got up to fill a glass for his sister, as he could hear her footsteps approaching. “Lager, right Sue?” he asked just as she entered the room.  
  
“In vast quantities,” she confirmed and settled in Greg’s chair. He let it slide under the circumstances and handed her the glass.  
  
“So, any news?” he asked her.  
  
“Not really. They are all fast asleep. Taylor is stable, he’s resting comfortably, they said. They are all exhausted so they expect them to sleep in tomorrow. Everyone is under strict orders to keep quiet around them… oh, and I have to remember to thank Mycroft for the private room for Ted and Tom.” She looked wistfully at her beer and downed about half of it in one go before exhaling, leaning back in the chair.  
  
“He’s very handy sometimes, that guy of mine,” Greg smiled.  
  
”He is indeed,” Sue agreed and exhaled heavily. “But that brother of his is bloody fantastic. How can I ever thank him for going out there and finding my boys?”  
  
“Probably by never mentioning it,” Greg shrugged, thinking back to Sherlock lying unconscious on the floor. He probably did not need any reminding of this day.  
  
“Oh, don’t be silly. I’ll bake him a cake, I think. I’ve never had a good cake refused.”  
  
“There’s a first time for everything,” Greg warned her, “and that would be a first for you.”  
  
Sue didn’t protest any further, a sure sign of her being tired and worried, so they spent the next hour trying to get their thoughts under control, drinking quite a lot of beer, and beginning to feel almost relaxed and human again when Mycroft joined them, a glass of a golden liquid in his hand, no ice, as usual.  
  
“Ah, a gaggle of Lestrades around the watering hole. Or is it a pride?” he wondered, giving Gregory a quick kiss on his forehead before settling on the armrest of Gregory’s chair.  
  
“A pack, dear,” Greg corrected him. “So is all well around town? The situation under control?” Greg managed to wink at Mycroft, trying to remind him that no one else knew there was more to the earthquake than unstable ground.  
  
“As well as can be under the circumstances. You’ll be relieved to know there is no structural damage to either any bridges nor the underground, so all traffic is running normally again.”  
  
“That’s a relief,” Greg admitted, exhaling a breath he didn’t know he’d held.  
  
“And my brother? Is there an update on his condition?” Mycroft asked.  
  
“Your brother?” Sue cut in? “Has something happened to him?”  
  
“Just a slight mishap at the hospital, nothing to be concerned about, a recurring… thing.”  
  
“He’s ok, My,” Greg assured them all, with a nod towards his sister. “John said they would release Sherlock to John’s care when his blood pressure was normal, but John had told them to look for another vital sign to use as a guideline, since Sherlock’s BP normally shifts from hibernating to hyperventilating, without any sensible middle-ground. John wasn’t worried though. Sherlock has made it a habit of getting kicked out of hospitals in record time. He promised to text me when they were home.”  
  
“Right. I’ll check his status later. After dinner I suppose. So, how is April fairing?” Mycroft asked and shot up from the chair when Gregory did, nearly getting knocked down by the proximity of Gregory’s skull to his jawbone, instantly alert as Gregory screamed at the top of his lungs with all the blood drained from his face.  
  
“April! Oh fuck, fuck, fuck!” Greg howled. In only seconds every Lestrade in the room was on their feet, staring at him in shock. Questions to the effect of _‘What? Why? Where? What’s happening? Why are you…? What’s the problem…? Where is she?’_ were pummelling down on him as he turned to Mycroft to vent his anguish.  
  
“Our daughter! We’ve forgotten her! Abandoned her… she’s with my… she’s with my…” The panic in Greg’s voice was steadily rising as he swivelled towards everyone in the room and settled on his mother, pointing a shaking, and accusing finger in her direction. “She’s supposed to be with you. I left her in your care. What have you done with my daughter, mum!?”  
  
Greg felt the room spinning. The terror of what had just transpired - the vortex that had been unleashed on his brain settled around his heart as icy fingers and his chest heaved for breath. He could have been in serious trouble, but the next second he felt enveloped in a warm embrace, so fierce that he wasn’t able to attempt a breath. All he felt was an iron grip against his back, strong fingers at the nape of his neck holding his head steady as My’s firm voice sought to calm him down. “Easy darling, she’s safe. She’s safe. She’s safe. She’s safe.” He lost track of how many times the words were repeated before he relaxed the grip he didn’t know he had on My, easing up on the bruises he was creating, allowing himself to breathe again; Inhaling enough air to propel it out again in a single word.  
  
“How?  
  
“What do you mean how?” Mycroft whispered, continually stroking the silver hair, trying to calm the wild fox in his arms.  
  
“How is she safe? We left her in Croydon… but mum and dad were at the hospital, and I never, never, BLOODY NEVER once gave a thought to my daughter today and who were taking care of her. HOW can she be SAFE? I have completely failed. How is she safe? Answer me that?” Greg was faintly aware that he was hyperventilating again.  
  
“Oh, darling. I know we are new to parenthood, but did you really think you were in it on your own?“ Mycroft sought to console him.  
  
“Of course not, you’re here too, but you’ve been even busier than I have today, so it was up to me. It was my parents that I left her with. And then I took the chopper and… AUUUUWthefuck, mum!” he protested as his mother slapped him with such precision that a small indentation of her wedding ring was left on his cheek.     
  
“Don’t you even dare imply that I would abandon my grandchild, YOUR daughter, even if it was to take care of _my_ daughter? Have you completely lost your senses? ” Her glare could have taken down a bear in its tracks.  
  
“Oh, but then what…? And why the fuck didn’t anyone tell me?” Greg hoped he didn’t look as confused as he sounded. Responsible parents were supposed to be way more together than he felt.  
  
“We called George, of course. He came to get us, took us to the hospital and drove April back here, to her nanny, so you two could be big shots and run the nation, the government and the tourism industry while we concerned ourselves with actually injured people. Now apologise!” she finished.  
  
“I will!” he hollered at her. “As soon as I see my little girl, I shall apologise profusely to her for not sparing a moment for her in my thoughts today, England be damned. Getting home here and not making her my first thought, but calling John instead, Sherlock be damned, and then sipping beer with you all, my beer be damned.” He paused in his rant to have a small conniption, his feet rattling on the floor as a Spanish flamenco dancer. “I’d rather dismantle this bar than risk losing track of her like that again. Now if you’ll excuse me, no _pardon_ me, I’m going to go find her.”  
  
Greg wrenched free of Mycroft’s hug and ran upstairs, his footsteps reverberating through the house as they pounded up the steps, and they all drew a breath of relief when they heard his elated cry of “April, there you are, my darling.”  
  
Later Mycroft got out the really, really good wine for dinner and instructed Miles to make sure Gregory got double helpings of his favourite pudding. Everyone graciously accepted Greg’s half-hearted apologies while they ate, while Mycroft kept refilling his glass till his cheeks were rosy again.  
  
It did help the mood more than a little when Jerry recounted the birth of Greg. How he’d packed the car, remembered the change of clothes, the newly purchased bassinette, the extra towels, the housecoat Shirley’s mother had sent down especially for the stay at the clinic, and the stuffed toy the neighbours had bought for the unborn baby. He had even remembered his small selection of good books for himself in case the delivery ran long and he would be stuck in a boring hospital waiting room. Oh yes, and he had remembered to bring cigars to hand out in celebration of his first born. All in all, he had been pretty proud of himself and his organisational skills when he drove up in front of the hospital. And then, and only then, realised that he’d left Shirley in the driveway as he manoeuvred the car out into the streets. Finally, Greg understood why his dad, till this day, sent a gift basket to their old neighbours every Christmas.  
  
Mycroft spent dinner making plans for how to make the most of the hours they had during the night together before he had to go and de-brief his brother in the early morning. He had to tone the plans down a bit, though, when he couldn’t remember where he’d hid the handcuffs.

  

  
 

 


	10. How dead must a dead man be

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Make-up sex is worth fighting for, and a serious talk with Sherlock clarifies some puzzling issues about a dead man.

 

“I am still angry with you,” Greg warned Mycroft as they climbed into bed, reminding him of the deleted tape affair and Sherlock’s near miss with a cell at the Yard followed by a swift sentence from a judge.  
  
“Hmm, I know, but I’ll make it up to you,” Mycroft consoled him, rolling over to nuzzle at Gregory’s throat and massage his right shoulder with clever fingers that knew just how hard to knead.  
  
“Make it up to me a little more to the left,” Greg commanded him, wriggling a little into the mattress, revelling in the feeling of his butt gently caressed by the extraordinarily soft sheets that Miles had personally purchased for the household - in Egypt.  
  
“Oh, here? This spot?” Mycroft asked as he used the request as a pretext to slither onto Gregory’s supple body, covering it with his own as he deepened the massage.  
  
“Ah. Oh, yes. There, right there.” Greg approved of the action, tilting his head back to allow Mycroft’s mouth better access to his throat and his adroit fingers to his shoulder.  
  
“Mmmh, you taste exquisite,” Mycroft moaned, his tongue seeking out Gregory’s pulse point, tracing the life nerve up towards his jaw. He crowned the voyage of his tongue with a kiss, plunging deep into Gregory’s mouth, feeding on him, refilling himself with energy after their exhausting day. He palpably felt the lethargy vanish from his limbs, to be replaced by a far superior form of vitality and desire.  
  
Greg was writhing on the sheet, his body automatically matching the mounting heat that Mycroft was emitting, their movements becoming more of a grinding than a hug between two fit, toned bodies. Had there been a smoke alarm in the room, they may have been in trouble. As it was, Greg found it difficult to breathe and he was forced to break the kiss in order to inhale deeply. It may have been the lack of oxygen that prompted him to inspire Mycroft to use his mouth for other purposes.  
  
“Speak dirty to me, My. Let me hear what you want,” he panted, fairly sure he would love anything that velvety voice could produce.  
  
Mycroft wavered only momentarily on the ledge between his need to please Gregory in any manner in which he desired, and his own inexperience in the general field of sex and particularly within the subject of sex talk. As always, what Gregory wanted came first, so he went forth fearlessly.  
  
“Gregory, my darling, you are so desirable that all I can think of is how I am yearning to plummet my dick up your bottom. I am so stiff, and this _you_ do to me so effortlessly,” Mycroft whispered in a husky voice.     
  
Greg bit Mycroft’s shoulder. He bit it pretty hard. When he had his breathing under control again he discreetly wiped away a few tears and whispered, “Mycroft, shut up and kiss me.”  
  
Mycroft did. That was one thing he had mastered, thanks to Gregory’s eager responses, so he knew he did it well. He actually mastered a few other items on the menu of amore, and he generously shared them this evening, making sure Gregory both had a starter, a main course and plenty of dessert.  
  
When Gregory started moaning into the kiss while his response became sloppy and uncoordinated Mycroft broke it off and lowered his head slightly to concentrate his lips and teeth on the delicious earlobe that was so enticingly exposed to him. As always this elicited a high-pitched groan from Gregory, who loved this attention. It had the added side effect of making them both grind harder against each other, the friction making Mycroft mad with lust and he allowed his feelings free reign, for once letting his brain relinquish its control. His teeth lost their hold of the ear when Gregory soared up towards him, bucking his hips despite the fact that he was beneath Mycroft.  
  
Suddenly Greg tensed up. “My, I can’t… can’t hold… I’m coming,” Greg warned him just before a pair of strong copper’s arms grabbed Mycroft’s shoulder blades and crushed their bodies together. The rocking didn’t abate with the closeness, until Greg threw his head back on the pillow and hissed profusely since regular breathing was no longer an option.  
  
When Mycroft felt the warm spatter of Gregory’s seed flow against his stomach he felt his own orgasm relentlessly approach, and in short order reach a pinnacle that made his spine tingle and his toes curl up against the sheets. It left him depleted and heaving for breath, barely finding the strength to roll to the side, allowing their struggling chests some recuperation room.

  
***

  
It was early in the morning when Mycroft arrived at Baker Street, but Sherlock was as expected already up, fully dressed, throning in his chair, despite his small detour to the land of folly the day before. When Mycroft seated himself in John’s chair and opened his mouth to speak, however, Sherlock dramatically stalled this attempt with a raised palm as he stared intensely at him for nearly a full minute. After this interminable pause he smirked broadly at his brother, sipped his tea with a slurp and announced: “You tried sex talk last night, and you were quite unsuccessful. You are way too inexperienced, Mycroft. You should talk to John about these matters.”  
  
“Thank you, but no-oh! We won’t be trying that again.” Mycroft shook his head vigorously and ended that particular line of conversation by inquiring as to Sherlock’s health after the hospital mishap.  Sherlock, of course, emphatically denied feeling any ill effects of his (in his own mind ‘alleged’) overdose, and progressed to largely ignore the subject. Instead Mycroft was treated to a rant from Sherlock on CIA’s death criteria.  
  
Sherlock got up and instead seated himself at the dining table by the laptop and pulled up a page that he’d bookmarked. He typed a few fast strokes and turned the screen to face Mycroft.  
  
“So, let's have a look at what your colleagues in the CIA refer to as ODC.”  
  
“It’s OCD,” John’s voice sounded from the kitchen.  
  
“Not in this case, I’m afraid. It’s an abbreviation for Obvious Death Criteria,” Sherlock corrected him. “They have a list of ten signs of which at least two must be met for an agent to declare someone dead in the field.”  
   
“Isn’t that confidential information? That doesn’t look like their public interface.” Mycroft frowned at the website he was staring at.  
  
“Oh, it was child’s play to hack into it.” Sherlock waved that concern off with a pale hand, scrolling down the list with the other.  
  
“Still illegal, Sherlock,” Mycroft reminded him.  
  
Sherlock’s dismissal of “Oh, it’s all right. It’s John’s laptop,” was met by a “You’re still in trouble from yesterday and this is how you start the morning?” from the kitchen, but Sherlock ignored John, as he proceeded to quote from the list. “The list ranges from the obvious to the obscure,” Sherlock explained. “The most obvious is that there has to be a witness, or it must be a suicide by shooting through the mouth, or the amount of blood at the scene must exceed 3 litres, or a reliable coroner’s report is presented and so forth.”  
  
“Yes, quite reasonable, predictable and boring.” Mycroft actually yawned. “Why did you waste your time looking that up and mine listening to you yap on about it?”  
  
“Because Moriarty’s death meets every one of the criteria on that list. All ten, Mycroft!” Sherlock was getting excited so Mycroft turned up his attention level a smidgen.  
  
“So what you are saying…?”  
  
“That his death was too perfect.” Sherlock shot to his feet and started pacing back and forth between the fireplace and the coffee table. “Too prepared. Too researched. He is quite simply too dead to be believed, don’t you see?” Sherlock ended his rant on a high note, and Mycroft began to pay serious attention.  
  
“He’s not dead!” Both brothers came to the conclusion simultaneously and John emitted a deep and protracted groan as he emerged from the kitchen with a fresh pot of tea.  
  
“The upside to that is I get to kill him then, this time,” John said as his gaze automatically rested on the drawer where he kept his gun.  
  
“Be my guest,” Sherlock graciously allowed him. “But we may have to spend a moment or two on locating him first.”  
  
“But how… Sherlock, you saw him shoot himself.” John was not happy with this development.  
  
“Argh,” Sherlock dismissed the problem with the flick of a wrist, “lights and tricks, bulbs and strings. And he probably drugged me with a strong hallucinatory preparation. I was wondering why he kept pressing up so close, grabbing me, grabbing my hand. I should have run a blood test on myself after… after…” One look at John stopped Sherlock from finishing that sentence.  
  
“What is he up to?” John poured a cup of tea and handed it to Mycroft, his hand shaking slightly. He hurried up to seat himself in Sherlock’s chair while it was unoccupied.  
  
“That rather depends on his client,” Mycroft mused.  
  
“Client?” John looked perplexed and hurried to hide his confusion by sipping at his tea.  
  
“Moriarty never does anything for himself. There is always a client. Always,” Sherlock informed him.  
  
“But which client? That’s rather the question. Who has an interest in the crowns?” Mycroft pondered.  
  
“And why now?” Sherlock added. “They have been there for hundreds of years. What has changed? Has anything changed recently?”  
  
“Oh, what hasn’t, the world is in decay,” Mycroft moaned. “For once thing there is absolutely no respect for the royal family anymore. The newspapers will print all manners of rumours and made up stories, not to mention the photos…”  
  
“So what if they write a few critical articles about the king…” Sherlock began.  
  
“The Queen,” John corrected him without looking up.  
  
“Yes, probably her too, but how does that affect the crowns? It’s not like their value is linked… Oh! I see what you mean.” His face lit up in a big smile. “Should the royal family seize to be in power because of their diminished worth in the eyes of the population the crown jewels would most certainly be sold, in entirety or broken up in the various jewels.”  
  
“So, couldn’t whoever this client is not have stolen that, or just bought it?” John frowned.  
  
“Not if it’s a collector who wants it all as it is, for historical or sentimental reasons.” Sherlock was warming to the theory.  
  
“Or political reasons,” Mycroft added, and elaborated when Sherlock looked puzzled. “Both India, Pakistan, Iran and Afghanistan  has claimed ownership of Kōh-i Nūr from time to time, but last year, during a state visit, Cameron  stated quite clearly that we are not giving it back. Someone could have lost patience.”  
  
“What does Cameroun have to do with it then?” Sherlock frowned.  
  
“Cameron! He was the prime minister. Oh, do try to catch up Sherlock!”  
  
“Isn’t he still?” John wondered.  
  
“Oh, I think it’s really only he who thinks so,” Mycroft smiled and wiggled an eyebrow.  
  
“First things first. I need to go and talk to Molly Hooper. Something is amiss there. She declared Moriarty dead after all so she has some explaining to do.” Sherlock grabbed his coat but was stalled by an iron fist clenching around his wrist before he could put it on.  
  
“This time you are not going anywhere alone, understand? Not for a bleeding second.” John’s frown was deep and brooked no argument.  
  
“Of course you can come, John. Bring your gun if you like.”  
  
“Oh, I’ll bring more than that.” John turned towards Mycroft. “You will provide adequate protection this time, right?”  
  
“Already in effect. I think you’ll find you have new neighbours, and never less than four shadows, where ever you go,” Mycroft assured them.  
  
“No! It’s impossible for me to work that way. I do not need your interfering…”  
  
“Shut up, Sherlock and do what we tell you, just for once.” John was adamant, but let the wrist go so he could retrieve his gun and place it in his pocket. “If that lunatic is back, you will need bodyguards.”  
  
“But I have a sinister fiend to hunt down,” Sherlock protested, his face dark as storm clouds.

“My very own little Avenger,” John smiled endearingly at Sherlock.  
  
“I am?” Sherlock looked a bit proud of John’s assessment, knowing what he meant following a long and arduous night fighting over the remote control, which John had predominantly won, resulting in an absurd film with grown men in capes and iron suits. But at least it meant he could catch the reference.  
  
“Yes, the Incredible Sulk,” John laughed and retrieved the teapot before it could hit the wall.   
  
Mycroft let himself out of the flat after they had left. He stopped by Hamley’s on the way to pick up a teddy bear for his darling at home. He got one for April too.

 


	11. Molly, my dear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning 1: Sherlock is almost not sulking in this chapter!  
> Warning 2: Slight bondage. Well, what did you expect? They have a four poster bed after all.

_Hold your head up, you silly girl_  
_Look what you've done_  
_When you find yourself in the thick of it_  
_Help yourself to a bit of what is all around you_  
_Silly girl_

 

 

It was late in the afternoon when Sherlock and John arrived at Mycroft’s house to give him an update on the situation.  They managed to pry Greg away from April for the duration, much to Nanny B’s relief. She was beginning to wonder if she’d ever get to actually do her job with the doting father plastered to his daughter. It was his way to make up for his parenthood-amnesia during the earthquake crisis. Reminding Gregory that he was actually on paternity leave now, and had all the time in the world for April for the next two months, helped him calm down a bit. (And reminding him that Mycroft would be home with him for the first two weeks made him develop detailed and wicked plans in his head.)

“I take it you are about to give me an insightful explanation as to why I now have one of my rare bodyguard details assigned to look after Miss Hooper?” Mycroft asked as he poured them each a small glass of an exquisite cognac. Sherlock took his with unusual gratitude, implying that he had not been having an enjoyable day.  
  
“It was rather a complicated affair,” he answered as he sipped his cognac. John seated himself next to him in the dark brown leather sofa, placing a protective arm around his lover, by instinct or need, he didn’t care, just knew that he should.  
  
“These things tend to be,” Mycroft acknowledged, crossing his long legs in front of him, as he raised his glass to his lips.  
  
“She was in on it,” John began.  
  
“Not ‘in-on-it’, John,” Sherlock protested, snorting at the description. “You make her sound like a part of his erstwhile organisation.”  
  
“Yeah. Well, she’s not exactly Moll Flanders, but neither is she the doe-eyed innocent we all took her for. Nope, she’s no Bambi,” John elaborated.  
  
“No, that she isn’t,” Sherlock admitted on a sigh.  
  
“So she did fake Moriarty’s death certificate and post-mortem?” Greg asked, getting to the heart of the matter.  
  
“She did,” Sherlock nodded. “As she did mine.”  
  
“The little minx,” John sniffed and shook his head, willing himself to let that one go, allowing the exceptionally good cognac to aid him a bit. He wondered how much Sherlock-sitting and -telling he’d have to do to get Mycroft to give him one of these bottles. Probably more than he was willing to give, John concluded and gave up on the idea.  
  
“And how did he get to her?”  
  
“Aaah!” Sherlock sat up straight, eyeing his brother. “For once, Mycroft, you get right to the core of the problem. He got to her by knowing her. By knowing _me_!” Sherlock drew out the pronoun as if it was a word he regretted having to use, an admission that left his mouth tasting like ash. “He knew she mattered to me. Knew she was important. So important that he omitted her from the friend's list he cited to me. The three friends he told me would die if I didn’t kill myself. The three names we had anticipated,” Sherlock paused to squeeze John’s hand in a belated apology before he continued, “so, there was, in fact, a fourth shooter.” Sherlock stopped for a moment to take a sip, and all that was heard was a sharp intake of breath from Greg. “…with her name on the contract.” Sherlock shook his head, clearly annoyed that he hadn’t anticipated that eventuality when he and Mycroft had planned his disappearance.  
  
“The poor girl!” Greg exhaled. “And she never told anyone about it. Or… blasted… damn her, why didn’t she?”  
  
“He scared her witless,” Sherlock continued. “He explained to her that she would die if she didn’t do what he demanded. And this is where it gets really complicated.”  
  
“Yeah, because… well, Molly… she adored you,” Greg said, keeping a wary eye on how John reacted to that. Not that John hadn’t always known how Molly felt about Sherlock. Pretty much everyone did. “So, I mean… I know it’s an awful thing to have an assassin on your tail, I wasn’t too chuffed when I heard about mine, but she would have… I mean, if she knew…”  
  
“Yes,” Sherlock interrupted him. “She would probably have told me, or Mycroft, or you, about Moriarty being alive, even if it would get her killed. She never had much sense of self-preservation to begin with,” Sherlock winced as John’s hand tightened a bit too much on his shoulder but continued after a moment, “and he had, of course, anticipated that.”  
  
“The fucker,” John hissed through clenched teeth.    
  
“Yes, he knew her well,” Sherlock went on, giving John’s hand a comforting squeeze. “He informed her that if she should be so noble as to inform anyone about his death being fake, and thus forfeit her life out of loyalty to me, then John would die as well, at the hand of her assassin.”  
  
“Even though Moriarty believed you had killed yourself to ‘pay’ for John’s life?” Greg was appalled, but not surprised.  
  
“Indeed, even if I did what was required of me to keep him alive, he would have him killed regardless if she decided to sacrifice herself; He would make sure it would have been in vain, and that she knew that. To top it off, the bastard told her she was only granted this opportunity to ‘earn her right to live’ because they had dated briefly, and she had been quite kind to him.”  
  
“So she played both sides.” Mycroft looked thoughtful, pondering how he and his brother could have missed this gaping hole in their plans; it wasn’t as if he didn’t know of the principle of double spies. “She helped him fake his death, then helped you fake your death, and told no one. But why didn’t she… once you came back?”  
  
“Her shooter is still there,” Sherlock explained.  
  
“No!” Greg erupted. “You must be joking. For all these years? Surely some copper would have spotted him hanging around London.”  
  
“It’s not like there’s been a hit man permanently installed in a chimney on the roof next to St. Bart’s or her home,” Sherlock scoffed, “but every now and then, at least once per week she has been aware of a little red dot of light playfully circling her heart, only to disappear the moment she looked up. Normally when she was en route from her home to her job.”  
  
“So, that’s what my guard is doing there!” Mycroft got up to pace the room. “And how did such a little thing hold up under such dire circumstances for so long?”  
  
“Not very well,” John acknowledged. “She broke completely down when Sherlock confronted her with our theory, of course with his usual lack of finesse. I’ve had to more or less sedate her.” John pinched Sherlock’s skin where his fingers were resting on it.  
  
“I see. Where is she now?” Mycroft demanded of John.  
  
“She is in a staff room at St. Bart’s. They have a little tea kitchen and a bunk bed,” John explained, ”and, more importantly, no windows in there. A nurse is with her, and I’ve called Rain. He’s going over there right after work.”  
  
“All right. I’ll take it from here then,” Mycroft sighed. Rain had a very bad track record when it came to stressful situations, so he could hardly deliver all the support Molly Hooper would need now.  Mycroft came to a quick decision. “We shall simply have to put her in a safe house till Moriarty is apprehended,” he said.  
  
“No! Absolutely not!” Sherlock sprang to his feet with alacrity. “I need her at St. Bart’s. She’s the best biochemical assistant I’ve ever had, and I need her to actively call me in when clues turn up in the morgue. And believe me, with Moriarty on the loose in London, clues _will_ turn up in the morgue.“  
  
“But it could be quite a while…” John protested. “It’s Moriarty we’re talking about, he’s not easily caught, not like your usual punter who’s prone to run into a police trap at the local pub at the promise of free beer.”  
  
“No, of course not. Nevertheless, it’s not the same formidable fiend we faced last time,” Sherlock explained with uncharacteristic patience. “His organisation is gone. It has been completely obliterated. Mycroft and I have seen to that. He is considerably weakened, even though I’m not foolish enough to think he’ll be easy to catch. But _I will_ catch him.”  
  
“I know, Sherlock,” Mycroft sighed. “And I will help where I can, as long as you do the legwork. May I ask how you will catch him?”  
  
“You may ask, but I am not quite sure yet. I may need to borrow a bauble or two from your royal repositories, as bait, if you don’t mind.”  
  
“Anything you want, brother dear, as long as you bring it back again.”  
  
“I’ll keep you posted,” Sherlock promised him as he got up, pulling John with him. “Come on, John. It’s time to activate the homeless network and set things in motion. The game is on!”  
  
“And you are enjoying it, you madman,” John grinned at him as he followed him out the door, waving a quick goodbye at Greg.  
  
“Just keep me updated,” Mycroft shouted after them and turned to Gregory with a sigh. “I’m sorry, I haven’t even asked. How is Taylor doing today?”  
  
“There is no change. He is still kept under sedation, but Tom and Ted have been discharged. They are doing fine. Well… apart from the obvious, of course.”  
  
“Quite. Do you require the car to take you there today?”  
  
“No, Sue is there, and so is mum. There is nothing to do there till he wakes, though, and that won’t be today. They were going to go home in a little while actually. Tom is already home with Ted.”  
  
“But they are both healthy?” Mycroft asked, a slight tinge of worry in his voice.  
  
“Yes, yes. But they’re supposed to take it easy. Oh, and mum said that when Taylor wakes up she’ll take me ring-shopping. She wanted to let me know she hasn’t forgotten.”  
  
“Oh, yes. I believe I have some shopping to do as well. Maybe tomorrow? I thought we could take April and Grace Kelly out for a nice long walk on the heath now, and maybe enjoy an early night in?” To Mycroft, an early night with Gregory was tantamount to extreme luxury.  
  
“Are you not needed in your office at all, with all that’s going on?” Greg was never quite sure just how many pies Mycroft had fingers in, nor how many fingers.  
  
“Oh, no. The absolute crisis has passed. That’s when they need me. My staff is completely competent to handle the after effects and clean up. That should keep them very busy, actually, for my two weeks leave. But rest assured they’ll call if something is amiss. Let’s hope they don’t.”  
  
“And Sherlock?”  
  
“He is also quite capable of getting into trouble without any aid from me. Well, joking aside, I have a few proficient teams following him closely, and I shall be kept updated.”  
  
“Keep me in the loop, ok? So a walk and the early night? I do have some plans for tonight.” Greg winked at him.  
  
“After you.” Mycroft gestured to the door.  
  
“You bet,” Greg grinned at him and called out to Gracie who came running in from the kitchen, where she had no doubt been trying to beg food off Chef.

\----*----

It wasn’t quite so early any longer when Mycroft came and it was so intense that it bordered on painful. Not that he had any choice, the way Gregory was pummelling two fingers in and out of him, while his other hand firmly but gently milked him. It had taken hours! Hours where Gregory has teased him, kissed him, bitten him, licked him, fucked him, stroked him and he would have come a hundred times over if it hadn’t been for that damned cock-ring that had been placed so firmly and relentlessly on him.  
  
He would have ripped it off ten seconds after Gregory had come inside him, shuddering and moaning his name had he not been so efficiently spread-eagled on the bed, tied to the four-poster with silken ropes. Soft, utterly unyielding and crimson red to set off the dark oak of the bed, and he loathed and loved them.

Neither of them was in the cuddly toys industry, rather their jobs came with a certain very expensive level of life insurance contracts. So whenever they inevitably, and far too often, found themselves caught in an abyss of angst and dread, or as Gregory put it, whenever the proverbial shit hit the proverbial fan,  he needed to feel in control, craved the total power of ownership, the sense of managing everything, even Mycroft. Actually particularly Mycroft. Mycroft above anything else. And luckily Mycroft was tailor-made for this craving; when he was finally completely off duty, he wanted to abandon all responsibility, shed it like an old overused coat and let Gregory decide everything for him.  
  
His nipples were sore and tender after countless licks and bites, so when Gregory bent to suck roughly on the right one he howled with sensation. Gregory silenced him with a kiss.  
  
He revelled in the sensation of having no option but to lie there, not able to do anything but submit. Not that it made any difference whether he did submit or not. He still could do nothing but writhe in pleasure and sweet agony as Gregory played him like a virtuoso worked his instrument.  
  
Gregory had already come twice. Once fucking Mycroft, and once more almost an hour later, rutting slowly against him, secure in the knowledge the ring would prevent Mycroft from prematurely showing his enthusiasm.  
  
But now, finally, he was allowed to come, more than encouraged to actually. It was demanded. And now that it was here, he didn’t want to. He knew it would be too much, it was already too much the way his nipples were smarting, his balls were twenty hues of blue, and he didn’t need to look at his cock to know it was a shade of red that even van Gogh had never dreamed of.  
  
“I am going to make you come now, My,” Gregory whispered, his voice husky and soft, “and you are going to moan for me. Or you may scream if you like.”  
  
He did. All of the above actually.

 

 

 

 

 


	12. We need more toys!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly is not happy with her situation and Greg learns something about John’s sex life he could have done without.

 

 

 

”She called again, sir,” Miles said when he took Mycroft’s coat as he entered the hallway. “I fibbed a bit and informed her you would be arriving home late today, and she was not pleased.”  
  
“No, she never is.” Mycroft sighed heavily and patted Miles shallowly on the arm. “I’ll call her, give her the usual tale. Do you think you may find an extra dessert or something to send over there?”  
  
“Of course sir, I’ll load the car with her usual treats. But if I may suggest…?” The raised eyebrow made Mycroft curious enough to enquire further.  
  
“Yes? What is your suggestion?”  
  
“She needs to get a lot more exercise than she is able to get in that confined space, particularly with the diet we have been keeping her on. I haven’t seen her of course, but I would guess that she has gained weight at an alarming rate.”  
  
“She has indeed.” Mycroft had to hold back a snigger at the image of Molly Hooper as a rather rounder figure, or as Gregory called her lately, _Molly Dick._  
  
“And you don’t find that to be a concern, sir?” Miles asked, almost respectfully.  
  
“To be honest, I had not thought it would be this long, so I value your input. I shall take this under consideration and actually talk to her about it right now.  If I may just bother you for a G &T… _oh_!” he added as Miles pointed to a tray on the side table displaying the long drink, freshly made with big chunks of ice and Miles’ signature sprinkling of fresh dill and pomelo slices. Mycroft’s most recent addiction.  
  
“Aaah! Thank you, cheers,” he said as he raised the glass, pulling out his mobile as he sauntered towards his office. He didn’t bother looking in on Gregory just now. He knew it was snack time, and that he and April would be completely lost in each other and the pommes selection du jour. Even though April was only just a little over two months old she had already started to crave more than milk, but the process was not without sacrifice. The sacrifice mainly being Gregory bathed in Apple Sauce thrice daily.  Mycroft promised himself the treat of going to lick remnants off Gregory once he was done with this conversation.  
  
He sat down in his high backed leather chair - his ‘throne’ as Sherlock had dubbed it, and he agreed. The chair held him up, supported his back, _had_ his back, sported big sides doubling as ear protectors and sturdy legs that held him steady. It was his bloody best bodyguard, and he loved this chair. He could call anyone and demand anything sitting in the supple leather, anyone! Anyone, except Molly Dick _… Molly Hooper,_ he corrected himself with a quick head shake. Oh, how he did not want this phone call when he could be bending Gregory over the kitchen table, licking pectoral muscles free of mushy fruit. He reined himself in as he recognised the signs of his mind derailing. Ok, time for another swig of the refreshing drink, and then on to the task of letting his fingers dance the numbers, calling her.  
  
The phone only rang once before it was answered. _‘Damn, she is hungry today’_ , Mycroft thought _. ‘This may take longer than I am willing to give.'_  
  
“I can’t stand this anymore”, she wailed before he had even introduced himself. “I want out! I want to be home, I want my freedom!”  
  
“Yes, Molly. I know that. My fiancé knows that, the entire medical staff at Bart’s knows that, your bodyguards know it, Rain knows it, Sherlock knows it, and the one person above all who knows this is your ex-boyfriend, James Moriarty, who is itching to have you killed, to thank you for your kind help in letting him get away with his own murder,” Mycroft reminded her, his patience reduced to a mere veneer of faked politeness.  
  
“It’s not fair,” she pouted.  
  
“Do allow me to disagree just a tad with you on that point. You have in fact perjured yourself against the crown aiding and abetting a known criminal. I may be tempted to consider your current confinement as a mild form of house arrest.”  
  
“But if I hadn’t done it, he would have killed John Watson.”  
  
“Yes, and that would have broken Sherlock’s heart, which in turn would have broken your heart. What may we deduce about your love?”  
  
“Nothing. I’m done being deduced by you and your brother. I just want to be home with my boyfriend. My almost normal hyper-allergic non-murdering boyfriend. When can I go home, please Mycroft?”  
  
“I shall look into it, Molly. I must admit the situation has lasted longer than I had anticipated. I rather had hoped Sherlock would have made more progress at this point. It was his idea that you should stay at St. Bart’s, but since he’s not in London, I think it may be prudent to move you to a safe house where you can spread your wings a little more.”  
  
“Oh, yes please, Mycroft.” Molly’s sigh of relief was very audible. “And can Rain come too?”  
  
“I shall look into it. Now for tonight Miles is sending over some treats, as well as a couple of DVDs I’ve collected for you.”  
  
“Westerns?” she asked hopefully.  
  
“Of course,” Mycroft assured her. “I’ll look into matters and call you tomorrow.”

“Promise?”  
  
“I promise,” he said and hung up just in time to see Gregory enter the room, a damp towel mopping up apple residue from his hair.  
  
“Damn. I wanted to lick that off.”  
  
“Sorry, love. You can lick her dinner off me later if you want. How come you are home so early?”  
  
“It was a slow day for once, and I missed my darlings. But as luck would have it Molly Dick called, and now I have to look into some alternative accommodation for her. Unless there is good news from the yard?” Mycroft held no greater hope for this.  
  
“No, not really. No one has seen hide or sight of a sniper round there since you put her in solitary confinement in that nursing station. There’s talk about putting a decoy out there to see if we can lure him out. But since I’m still on leave, I’m not much in the loop. I just hear a bit now and then when I call them.”  
  
“Get Donovan out of jail and use her as the decoy,” Mycroft suggested and Greg tried to convince himself that he was only joking.  
  
“Yeah, maybe not. Conventions and all that.”  
  
“Ok, I’ll look into finding a safe house instead then,” Mycroft shrugged. “But we will have to do something about that sniper soon. Sherlock hasn’t reported a single progress to me in a month, and I’m beginning to worry.”

“Well, you’ll have to handle it on your own for now. April and I have an afternoon appointment with some cute monkeys at the zoo, and Nanny B is off to the pub.” Greg finished mopping off his hair.  
  
“Bodyguards!” Mycroft huffed.  
  
“Of course, daddy-oh. I’ll bring as many as her majesty needs.” Greg bent to give him a quick kiss.  
  
“Don’t call her that, I hate those nicknames.” Mycroft scrunched his nose up in disapproval.  
  
“It wasn’t her I meant, darling, it was you,” Greg grinned as he ran from the room before something could hit him in the back of the head.

\---*---

“What are you doing?” Greg asked later that evening as he came back from tucking April in, seeing Mycroft poring over a stack of papers.  
  
“I’m going over the bills Sherlock has run up, with my credit card.” He shrugged at Gregory’s huff of outrage. “At least this way I can keep track of his and John’s travels in the UK. They are getting quite extensively around.”  He patted the pile he’d already gone through. “Salisbury, Bristol, Gloucester, Swansea, Birmingham, Nottingham, Cambridge and… what the hell?”  
  
“What is it? Gregory leaned in, curious to see the offending bill, but he could only catch a glimpse as Mycroft waved it around.  
  
“Paris! What the blazes are they doing in Paris? I’m going to have to text him.” Mycroft’s phone was in his hands faster than James Bond could have pulled his Walther PPK.  Gregory thought of it as just one of his superpowers.

“Right, sending this off,” Mycroft said after his fingers had flown briefly across the keyboard and clicked send with a small flourish of his wrist.

_Tuesday 22 nd May 18:22  
Please explain bill of hotel rooms in Paris. Has the bird flown the coop? – MH_

There was always two options when texting Sherlock. Either he would ignore your text because it didn’t further his cause or fuel his interest, or he would answer right way. This was one of the latter situations.  
  
_Tuesday 22_ nd May 18:24  
I never believed we would find Moriarty in France – SH  
  
“At least he doesn’t think Moriarty is in France,” Mycroft explained to Gregory who had signalled his interest in the answer by raising his eyebrows.  
  
“France? No, I should really think not,” Greg almost rasped, “our border patrols on either side shouldn’t be that bloody useless.”  
  
“Why then?” Mycroft wondered and texted back.  
  
_Tuesday 22_ nd May 18.28  
_Then please inform me of the purpose of your visit to Paris -  MH_

 _Tuesday 22 nd May 18.29_  
_We were making very little progress at the time, and needed a break – SH_  
  
_Tuesday 22 nd May 18.30_  
_Have you made no progress at all? – MH_  
  
_Tuesday 22 nd May 18.31_  
_Yes, yesterday John nearly got run over on purpose. It’s very promising. – SH_  
  
_Tuesday 22 nd May 18.33_  
_Oh, do to take good care of John. I couldn’t handle your sulking if something should happen. – MH_  
  
_Tuesday 22 nd May 18.35_  
_I do take good care of him, Paris, remember? It was our anniversary. Obviously - SH_

_Tuesday 22 nd May 18:37  
Of John ‘coming out’ as bisexual finally? - MH_

_Tuesday 22_ nd May 18:40  
_Oh, I’d say more like omnisexual. He’s had sex on three continents and has actually admitted to shagging a melon when he was fifteen. – SH_  
  
Mycroft allowed himself a moment to collect his wits, pinching his nose tightly, getting his smile under control before answering Gregory’s increasingly insistent cries of “what-what-what-what-what-why are you grinning?”  
  
“It would appear that our good captain is more adventurous than you would give him credit for. Sherlock has just informed me that John has had sex with a melon.”  
  
Greg said absolutely nothing, and then he dug his own phone out and let Mycroft and Sherlock fight over the hotel bill on their own.

 _Tuesday 22_ nd May 18:45  
_A melon, John? Fallen on hard times? – GL_  
  
_Tuesday 22 nd May 18:47_  
_He told you? I can’t believe it. I was fifteen, did he tell you that too? It was an experiment._  
  
_Tuesday 22 nd May 18.49_  
_Sherlock would have appreciated that. – GL_  
  
_Tuesday 22 nd May 18.51_  
_I know. That’s why I told him about it. In confidence! And what’s up with the initials? I can see you’re the sender. Idiots._  
  
_Tuesday 22 nd May 18:55_  
_I promised My I’d do it. It calms him down and speaks to his OCD. So, other than melons, what have you shagged that you haven’t told me about? – GL_  
  
_Tuesday 22 nd May 18:58_  
_Loads. I’ve shagged plenty of women you haven’t heard of._  
  
_Tuesday 22_ nd May 19:02  
_Should we worry about the animals at the London Zoo or does your appetite stop at humans and fruit? - GL_

 _Tuesday 22 nd May 19:04_  
_I have no immediate plans to shag my way around the zoo, but I can give you no guarantees. I might be too tempted should I meet an aardvark._  
  
_Tuesday 22_ nd May 19:08  
_I shall put all aardvarks on alert. Gotta go now. Seems Mycroft is done with Sherlock. Must find out who won. Thank Sherlock for the melon story. Keep me updated on the chase, ok? Where are you off to? – GL_  
  
_Tuesday 22 nd May 19:11_  
_Up yours. Bye_.  
  
  
  
“I can’t believe John is less vanilla than we are,” Greg complained to Mycroft as he put his phone away. “We need more toys!”  
  
“No, we really don’t. We haven’t even tried half the stuff you bought the night you got drunk on my best whiskey and found my credit card.”  
  
“Oh, true that. I haven’t seen if that lilac thing will fit you.” Greg perked up a bit.  
  
“Nor shall you ever. Unless you learn how to levitate.”  
  
“I can try,” Greg promised him with a wink, but let it go when he saw the frowns growing. “Ok, ok, how about we just think of something dirty to try tonight, to soothe my ego?”  
  
“I shall put my considerable intelligence to work on nothing but that task, so expect little sleep and loads of moaning,” Mycroft promised him with a suggestive round of eyebrow wriggling.  
  
“Hmm, but not at the dinner table, ok? Can we go eat? I’m starved.  You have no idea how demanding April can be at the zoo.”  
  
“Oh, really? I rather suspect it’s papa who insists on showing her every critter in there, and spending way too much time with the lemurs.”  
  
“Your bodyguards are right little tattletales,” Greg sulked.  
  
“Yes, but they’re not having me for dessert. Dinner?”  
  
“Oh, bloody yes!”  
  
Miles sighed and rolled his eyes when he discovered the cheesecake had been taken upstairs after dinner and that all the Nutella was gone from the kitchen cupboard. Again.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My Beta saved me from a truly disgusting mistake:  
> Mycroft eating the remains of Gregory... ewww (rather than Mycroft eating the remains off Gregory!)


	13. Electric Avenue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg claimed their love life was too vanilla. Mycroft rises to the occasion. A completely PWP chapter.

 

 

 

 

”So, you’re not vanilla anymore. You’re entirely Nutella. Happy now?” Mycroft comforted Gregory, mentally writing off the sheets they were currently drenching in the substance.  
  
“It’s incredibly sticky,” Greg complained, wriggling a bit.  
  
“It’s supposed to be. I expect I’ll be scraping it off my teeth and the bedframe for weeks to come. Now, where would you like me to start?”  
  
“Get the stuff off my face first, please. It’s itchy!” Greg experimentally pulled at the Nutella smudged ropes once again, and once again concluded that Mycroft was even better at knots than he was himself.  
  
A slurping sound quickly followed Mycroft’s nod and the pink tip of Gregory’s nose appeared beneath the layer of hazelnut spread. Mycroft sucked his own front teeth clean before delivering two long licks, one to each cheek. Happy to see more and more of Gregory appear he sped up a bit till the face was once again pink, and now also a little shiny.  
  
“This isn’t particularly sexy,” Greg informed him, wrinkling his nose. “I still feel sticky.”  
  
“Not for long. I love Nutella,” Mycroft promised him and went to town on Gregory.  
  
A long, sticky and slurping time later Gregory was cleared of the last bits of Nutella, shaking with arousal, pleading with Mycroft to touch him, and howling with outrage as Mycroft got out of bed. “Where are you going? You’re seriously not leaving me like this, are you?”  
  
“I’m just retrieving the toys. You did mention we need more toys, right?” Mycroft asked with a wicked smile as he walked to the wardrobe and brought out the purple velvet box with the code key that only he and Gregory could open.  He rummaged around inside the box before he found what he was looking for. “Now which one was it you were afraid to use… hmm, this one, I think. This shouldn’t be too complicated.” Mycroft stood up holding a shiny object in his hands and Gregory froze on the bed.  
  
“No, no! You can’t mean that. We haven’t even read the manual yet,” he protested, pulling a little frantically at the ropes.  
  
“Oh, don’t worry, love. Don’t you trust me? I am supposedly the smartest man in England. If I can’t successfully operate the mechanism of a dildo then the British economy is in grave danger, not to mention world peace. But if you insist, I’ll have a gander.” Mycroft put the object on the bed, casually placed between Gregory’s legs while he perused the manual. Satisfied with his findings he put it down and crawled back onto the bed. “I’m ready, are you?”  
  
“Not really,” Greg protested, only too aware of how little a say he had in matters at that particular moment.  
  
“It’s supposed to be enjoyable, but the manual does mention the possibility of some initial discomfort till the right levels have been found. Oh, and a few safety questions.”  
  
“Like what?” Gregory asked, more than a hint of suspicion in his voice.  
  
“Like any history of heart failure in the family?”  
  
“What? No! No, we haven’t, why would you want to know…”  
  
“Never you mind. Just tell me if you or anyone near to you have suffered from epilepsy? No? Good. No strokes or seizures?” He continued when Gregory just shook his head in denial. “And I guess it’s safe to assume that you aren’t currently pregnant, so let’s commence.”  
  
Greg started as he saw a tube of lube in Mycroft’s hand. Where had that come from? And what was he putting it on? He tried to lift his head off the bed to see better but was unable to get a good look. He inhaled sharply as he felt something cold against his opening, and couldn’t help but protest as he felt Mycroft push it in.  “Are you sure that’s enough lube… I mean you haven’t prepared me.” Greg’s voice was a little shaky.  
  
“I haven’t used lube at all. This is a conductive gel, but the plug is quite small so stop fuzzing. I remember you told me you didn’t buy this for the size or shape, but because the label was called Mystim. Lie still while I insert it, and just say so if it hurts.”  
  
Of course it didn’t hurt. Greg knew Mycroft would never hurt him, and as usual, he was incredibly gentle, slowly pushing the small dildo in till he was satisfied with its location. Then he plugged it in and connected the wire to a small box at the foot of the bed. Greg bit his lip in a mix of anticipation and dread as he watched Mycroft switch the dial to ‘on’ and slowly turn the current up.  He immediately felt a gentle tingle in his entire lower region and a soft moan escaped him. This earned him a smile from Mycroft.  
  
“Aha, definitely not pain then. Let’s try a bit more.” Mycroft turned the dial up nearly a quarter of the scale and suddenly the moaning was delivered on a constant note. “What does it feel like?”  
  
“It’s… it’s… throbbing. Pretty good, almost as if you were inside me, and yet completelylylylyly different… what did you just…?”  
  
“Just upped it a little more. You’re almost up to half the scale now. Let’s try a bit more.” Mycroft kept his eyes glued to Gregory’s face as he turned the dial up another quarter, marvelling at the new language this produced.  
  
“Gegagnugnouth!” Greg screamed, followed by “Facthefeckinguuuuch!”  
  
Mycroft moved his eyes further down and they widened a bit when he saw Gregory’s sphincter contract and relax and contract again around the plug.  An urgent howl from Gregory on a near-subsonic level drew his attention back, and he hastened to turn the dial somewhat down. “Ok, a bit too much?”  
  
Gregory took a few heavy breaths before he answered, “Do that again and you’re wearing that thing to work next time you go in.”  
  
“Fair enough,” Mycroft chuckled and locked the setting where it was, putting the box down on the floor. “We’ll keep the setting right here.”  
  
“I think that may be tooohooo intense,” Greg protested.  
  
“Well, that is too bad. You will just have to get used to it. Now let me just get some lube.” Mycroft rummaged in the drawer on the nightstand and found their preferred label.  
  
“Wha-wha-what’dya need that for? It can’t go further in.”  
  
“It’s not for you, my dear, it’s for me,” Mycroft said enigmatically.  
  
“You’re also using a a a... dildo?” Greg panted as the constant throbbing in his groin made him react, sometimes with minute movements, sometimes with an outright spasm that left him gasping for air.  
  
“Now why should I use an artificial dildo when I have the real thing, your lovely cock, begging for attention and camaraderie?” Mycroft smiled as he began fingering himself, relaxing his opening, slowly pushing two fingers in.  
  
“Oh, shit. I’ll short circuit for sure!” Greg moaned as he realised what was in store.  
  
“Better you than me.” Mycroft offered him a wry smile as he climbed onto the bed, straddling Gregory and getting a firm grip on the shaft, slowly lowering himself on it, not wasting any time or sentiment on further ado.  
  
“Oh shit, fuck, fuck, fuck… easy My, or I’ll blow right now,” Greg warned him as the incredible tightness made his vision blur. He pulled the ropes tight, using the slight pain to pull himself back under a semblance of control.  
  
“I’ll take it as easy as I can, but you are a rather enticing sight right now,” Mycroft panted, sitting absolutely still, waiting for a sign from Gregory.  
  
After a short while, Greg exhaled slowly and nodded at Mycroft, bracing himself mentally, though he didn’t have a chance of doing it physically.  
  
“I’ll take it slow, I promise,” Mycroft said as he began riding Gregory slowly, so very very slowly.  
  
“You bebebebebetter… this feels like being fucked and fufufucking at the same time, it’s just… Jeeehehesuus!” Greg hiccupped, his eyes falling shut as the plug inside him felt as if it was moving in and out, even though he knew it was holding firm inside him. His nerve endings were being hammered with feelings, and it was getting to be too much.  
  
“This is magnificent,” Mycroft panted. “I can feel the current through your cock. It’s almost… buzzing.”  
  
Greg’s answer was a faint whimper.  
  
Mycroft looked at Gregory and knew that this could not last long. He retrieved the lube and squeezed some into his hand, and then began to stroke himself, as he increased his pace fractionally. The moans this drew from his lover were very nearly enough to make him come, and he sped his stroking up, beginning to feel the first pangs of his orgasm approaching. He lifted his other hand to his nipple and finding it hard, pinched it between his thumb and ring finger. Gregory moaned long and deeply, and when Mycroft looked down at him, he found himself fixed in the headlights of the detective, huge brown eyes shifting between the hand on his cock and the hand on his nipple.  
  
“Oh, My, My for fuck's sake! You can’t do that to me… I can’t… I can’t… No way I can…with you…, oh, shit!”  
  
Mycroft could feel Gregory burrow his heels into the mattress, and hear how his breath was hitching. Gregory’s thighs started to shiver and Mycroft felt his own responding, burning a bit with the effort of keeping a high pace up and down Gregory’s shaft, and his back arched as he stroked himself with feverish urgency.  
  
“Oh fuck. Now My! Come with…with…with me,” Greg mewled and bucked up against Mycroft three times, hard and final and very satisfying if his scream of completion was anything to go by.  
  
Mycroft did as he was bid. Not that he had much choice. When he felt the first hard ramming from Gregory he lost all control and let his body decide for him, releasing a cascade of shining drops, rising high in the air, only to rain down on Gregory, mixing with the few remnants of Nutella on his chest.  
  
Mycroft was forced to bend forwards, resting his head against Gregory’s shoulder as he fought to regain his breathing and some semblance of control over his limbs. An urgent whisper pulled him out of his stupor as he began paying attention to Gregory.  
  
“Please, please, please take it out. Too much… too bloody sensitive. Please, please? My?”     
  
Mycroft shook his head to clear it and sat up, only then realising he was still impaled on Gregory. He gingerly lifted himself off and got out of the bed. “Of course, love. Right away,” he promised and quickly found the control box, switching it off. He then proceeded to carefully extract the dildo, and untie the ropes.  
  
“I’m afraid everything is going directly into the laundry basket, Gregory,” Mycroft informed him. “I’ll need to change the sheet. And I suppose you’d like a shower?”  
  
“Yeah, unless you can manage to get me down to the nearest car wash, I guess a shower will do,” Gregory said as he swung his legs over the edge of the bed. He pushed himself up to go to the bathroom and immediately felt the plush carpet scrape his knees a bit. “What the…” he wailed.  
  
“Oh, dear. Your legs can’t quite hold you yet,” Mycroft exclaimed as he dropped the sheet and hurried to Gregory’s aid. “Here, take my hand and I’ll help you to the bathroom, my damsel,” he smirked.  
  
“I’ll get you for this, I really will,” Greg laughed as he allowed himself to be helped up and escorted like a little old lady. “You may have to hold me up in the shower as well,” he warned him.  
  
“I shall try to endure,” Mycroft ensured him and propped Gregory up against the wall as he turned the water on and adjusted the temperature before pushing Gregory in first, following right behind him. He supported him with one hand and luxuriated in slathering the supple body with soap with the other. “Yes, indeed, I think I shall endure.”

 

_(Yes, it's real.)_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took a while with this chapter. I had to do some research for it. But that was fun too... (and then work happened, but that's a burden I guess we all share).


	14. Engaged and bewildered

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft and Greg enjoy some time together, pondering a one-worded clue from Sherlock. A clue with a heavy history.

[ ](http://pic20.picturetrail.com/VOL154/13724366/24676370/412552941.jpg)

“Magdalen or St. Anne’s? It’s almost intolerable to make these decisions,” Mycroft wailed, picking up the brochures once again. “How I wish I had more personal references to rely upon. So few women in our family went to Oxford.”  
  
“Really? I would have thought that a lot of women in your family had a university degree,” Greg wondered, lost in the pile of printed information about more colleges than he had ever thought would fit into the small town of Oxford.  
  
“Yes, I don’t think there are many who opted to go without, but it has been a popular choice to obtain the degree abroad, often in France or Italy. Not counting mummy, and her fascination for all things mathematics and physics, most of my aunts and female predecessors have all focused on the arts and literature.”  
  
“Oh, anyone famous?” Greg wondered.  
  
“Not as famous as your mother,” Mycroft retorted and Gregory shut up, sulkily perusing the brochures, avoiding _that_ subject.  
  
“Right, I’m simply going to have Anthea get some references for us before we decide,” Mycroft finally declared, putting his pile of brochures away.  
  
“I think we can wait a while, yes. April’s just over two months old, so I’m not too worried about ‘her’ choice of college yet. Have you considered that she might not want to go to college at all? Maybe she wants to become a cop,” Greg suggested.

Mycroft glared at him for several seconds before simply deleting that bit of conversation from his mind.  “So, have you heard anything from Taylor lately?” he asked instead.  
  
“Yes, he called yesterday. He is super chuffed about the new electronic wheelchair you got him. As long as he has to be in one, he does prefer it racing-red with little skulls on the handle. Well done, Mycroft.” Greg smiled to himself imagining Taylor tearing around the house in the new vehicle.  
  
“Good. Glad to help. It was all I could do, I’m afraid. I would of course rather have been able to restore him to health,” Mycroft sighed.  
  
“I think we all would have, but no one’s given up yet. He’s only ten after all. The doctors said that someday, it could still improve.“  
  
Mycroft smirked pleasantly in Gregory’s direction, putting his knowledge of spinal injuries on the back bench of his mind for the time.  It was true that swellings could subside with time, but more often than not, it stopped at hoping.  
  
“Actually, Sue had asked me to suspend the wedding plans till we know if Taylor will ever walk again, but Taylor won’t hear of it. He says he’ll be the fastest ring bearer anyone has ever seen, and that he might actually decide to take off with the rings altogether.”  
  
Mycroft sniggered at the image. He could only too vividly imagine Taylor doing just that, the kid’s brown curls bouncing wildly as he made his escape.  
  
“In that case, we have best insure them,” he smiled and looked at the ring on his left hand with the beautifully fitted pavé set diamonds that Gregory had placed there. He was looking forward to adding a plain gold band to it when they took their vows.  
  
“Hmm, yes. I guess we better set a date then,” Greg concluded.  
  
“Wonderful. We can make it a summer wedding. I’ll alert mummy, she can coordinate dates with Anthea.”  
  
“Oh, we can actually take out a holiday in the middle of the paternity leave to go on a honeymoon. I think I can just about bear that,” Greg grinned.  
  
“Where do you want to go? Still have your heart set on Paris?”  
  
“That depends… are we bringing April?” Greg asked as he automatically picked her up and placed her on his knee, bouncing her, which always produced an infectious smile and gurgling laughter. From April, that was.  
  
“No! Absolutely not! I love her dearly, but our honeymoon… just you and me.” Mycroft got up and gave Gregory a small peck on the top of his head.  
  
“Who can mind her, then? Your mum or my sis?”  
  
“May I remind you that we do employ a fully trained, highly functioning nanny, who can handle our daughter just fine on the rare occasions where you let April go long enough for her to actually nanny her.”  
  
“Yes, I know… but my leave is almost over for now. Your turn to have her. Just you wait. You won’t be able to hand her over to Nanny B either. She’s too much fun.” Greg smiled wistfully, both sad and elated that he was going back to work again, leaving the diaper changes and epic apple sauce battles to Mycroft.  
  
“You still have lots of leave left, you need only plan it with your HR department. Shall we do a few months together at the end of it? Might be fun,” Mycroft suggested.  
  
“Might be? Are you kidding me? Two months of just you and me and April?” Greg smiled so broadly that Mycroft feared for his jawbones.  
  
“And Nanny B. You forgot her again.”  
  
“Right, sorry. Actually, it is nap time, so I’ll just go and ferret her out, and she can put her down.” Greg hoisted a yawning April and then cradled her carefully in his arms, carrying her upstairs to her rooms.  
  
Mycroft smiled at his back, and was just about to pour himself a late afternoon whiskey when his phone pinged with a text from Sherlock. He read the cryptic text and then poured a rather larger glass than he had been planning to.  
  
“Why are you sitting there looking like a Rubik’s cube that can’t figure itself out?” Greg suddenly said, startling Mycroft who hadn’t noticed his return.  
  
“Oh, just a text from Sherlock,” he said and sipped his whisky. “Trying to figure it out.”  
  
“Why? What did he write?” Greg asked.  
  
“It just said ‘ _Excalibur!’_ that’s all. But why should he…?” Mycroft bit his lip, losing himself fast in his own thoughts.  
  
“Yes, I’ve no idea… Mycroft? My?” Greg huffed and poured himself a drink, picking up a book preparing to spend a few hours listening to Mycroft’s even breathing and the churning of cogwheels as the great mind was set to thinking. Not unlike Sherlock, Mycroft could immerse himself so deep in his own brain that he lost touch with the outside world for a matter of minutes to endless hours. But Greg was used to this now, so he just patiently sat and waited for the outcome, hoping it would ‘come out’ in time for dinner.  
  
  
The sun had set firmly over London, and an enticing smell was coming from the kitchen when Mycroft suddenly started, looked at the glass in his hand and downed the contents in one gulp. “Well, shall we?” he asked, indicating the dining room with a nod of his head.  
  
“What? Just like that? No eureka moment?”  Greg was both puzzled and disappointed.  
  
“Oh. Was I being boring?” Mycroft made a regretful face.   
  
“You mean, were you lost in thought? Only for two bloody hours and fifteen fucking minutes,” Greg wailed.  
  
“Apologies, I’m not sure I have come to the right suppositions, but I find it challenging to either prove or disprove my theory. “

“Perhaps dinner will help?” Greg suggested and walked through to the dining room, automatically holding a chair out for Mycroft who slid into place.  
  
“Indeed. It can’t hurt,” Mycroft agreed and helped himself and Greg to a glass of red wine, sitting back while Miles served their dinner.  
  
“Do you really not know what it is?  I mean… Excalibur, is it a code from Sherlock?” Greg wondered as he ate.  
  
“I don’t know where my brother’s mind is currently, but no, I think he means the actual sword, Caliburn.”  
  
“Didn’t you just say Excalibur?” Greg was used to losing the thread of Mycroft’s thoughts sometimes.  
  
“Same thing,” Mycroft explained. “The original name is Caliburn. Excalibur is probably just a corrupt form of that word. But it’s not the sword that intrigues me right now”, he admitted.  
  
“Oh, what then? Sherlock losing his mind?"  
  
“Ah, he lost that ages ago. That brother of mine never had any sense. No, I mean, if I ponder the clue to its logical conclusion, I think I know why Moriarty didn’t die."  
  
“You can figure that out from that one word?” Greg was duly impressed.  
  
“Yes, at least I think so. It’s hardly an area in which I can find empirical evidence, but _Le Morte d’Arthur_ is one of the core tales of British history, and in my family we know there is hardly any smoke without a fire somewhere.” Mycroft remembered he was seated at a dinner table and consequently shoved a piece of carrot in his mouth.  
  
“You mean the story is true? Excalibur, Guinevere, the holy grail and all that hoo-ha?” Greg felt frankly dubious.  
  
“Some of it is in some form. Of course a certain license of the arts have been used to embellish and broaden the stories, but nearly all folklore is rooted in actual events that in at least some ways resemble the fairy tales that have been passed down to us through history.”  
  
Greg snorted.  
  
“What is it?” Mycroft asked.  
  
“I’m imagining Sherlock wading into a lake convincing the lady to give him the sword, probably by pretending to be Arthur, having nicked his ID too.”  
  
“Very funny, but you may be a tad fanciful here,” Mycroft reproached him, yet couldn’t hide a smile.  “Still, like I said, it’s not the sword that is of interest. It’s the scabbard!”  
  
“Oh, what’s that called then? Incalibur?” Greg was still in a slightly silly frame of mind.  
  
“Moronic babbler. You’re spending too much time with April. It’s a good job you’re going back to The Yard to be surrounded by adults, I think you need it.”  
  
“Fine. And I actually think you’ll benefit as much from a couple of months in April’s company. You could do with sillying up a little.”  
  
“Would you mind awfully much if I waited with that till we have caught Moriarty and retrieved the crown jewels?” Mycroft asked.  
  
“My! Your snide is showing!” Greg chided him.  
  
“Apologies, now pass the peas.”  
  
“Only if you’ll tell me why the scabbard is important,” Greg said but passed them anyway.  
  
“According to the myth, the scabbard has healing powers. It can heal any wound, and anyone wearing it in battle is immortal.”  
  
“Hmm, hmm,” Greg encouraged him to go on, wordlessly.  
  
“What if Moriarty wore the scabbard, or an approximation thereof when he ‘shot himself’ on that roof?”  
  
“I think you’ll be fantastic at reading bedtime stories for April,“ Greg concluded after having stared at Mycroft for a good half minute. “You actually think that something like that scabbard exists? It’s all old legends and myths, My. Not like you to put your stock in that.”  
  
“Oh, it’s not all myth. There are some parts that are very real. Very real indeed. I should know,” Mycroft said, no mirth in his voice now.  
  
“How would you know that?” Greg asked, dubious.  
  
“Because I’m Excalibur!” Mycroft informed the gaping detective.  
  


 


	15. Excalibur!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg gets the information he wanted, but IS it the information he wanted?

 

 

 

[ ](http://pic20.picturetrail.com/VOL154/13724366/24676370/412583685.jpg)

 

 

“Not right now, Miles. If you don’t mind.” There is a first time for everything, and this was the first time Greg waved Miles out of the room, even though he was carrying a tray with their desserts.  
  
Miles discreetly disappeared.  
  
“Would you like to run that one by me again?” He said to Mycroft, not quite able to keep the incredulity out of his voice.  
  
“I am Excalibur?”  
  
“No, no. The small talk about the new roundabout in Redding,” Greg sneered. “Yes, of course, the Excalibur thing,” he yelled.  
  
“Not quite sure where to begin that story,” Mycroft admitted.  
  
“Do try with the beginning,” Greg suggested, filling his wine glass to the brim.  
  
“Right, ok then. First of all, I must tell you that this information is parted to you in total secrecy. You may repeat these words to no one. Ever. Do you understand? It is only in your position as my spouse-to-be that you are qualified to hear this.”  
  
“Really, My? You have to question my discretion?”  
  
“Certainly not, if I did I would not tell you this. But I am required to swear you to secrecy.”  
  
“Fine, I swear on this lovely ring of yours, I shall not breathe a word of this, now get on with it! From the beginning, please,” Greg enthused.  
  
“Certainly. In or around the year 700…”  
  
“Not that much of a beginning! The beginning of when you lost your marbles, please!”  
  
“I assure you, I am of sound mind and body,” Mycroft countered.  
  
“I know your body is fine, but I’m having serious doubts about your mind right now.”  
  
“In that case, it is quite fortuitous that it is not up to you to assess my intellectual faculties.”  
  
“Shut up, and tell me why I’m about to marry a long piece of welded steel…hmm, that does sound interesting in some ways, though.”  
  
“Horn dog. Calm yourself.”  
  
“No, not really, get on with it.”  
  
“I am trying to.” Mycroft cleared his throat. “Fact is I am Excalibur. I was destined to be Excalibur since birth, as was every firstborn in my family since the first Excalibur.”  
  
“The _first_ Exca…?” Greg let the last part of the word go in favour of a large swig of wine.  
  
Mycroft indulged in a heavy sigh, before continuing his explanation. “Yes, I know you know the myths and legends, but Excalibur was never a sword. Arthur’s sword was the sword from the stone, and that is not the same. He never abandoned that sword, and it never abandoned him. Just like Excalibur never abandoned him, nor any other king or queen since then.”  
  
"MILES! I NEED ANOTHER BOTTLE OF WINE!” Greg hollered before turning his attention back to Mycroft.  
  
“Excalibur was never a sword,” Mycroft repeated patiently. “That is how history has romanced the facts over the centuries. With each turn of time another layer has been added, so that we finally had a sword, welded a thousand times or more, born of words and wishes, brought into existence by writers and dreamers. Romantics. Everything that Excalibur never was.”  
  
“But what is it then?” Greg insisted.  
  
“Excalibur was simply  a title. A job description, you may say, for the first knight to dedicate his time to serve the kings words. To lay down his sword in favour of a more gentle approach to implementing Arthur’s wishes. The first to carry out what was possible and sometimes impossible, and see it to fruition, and to exhaust himself to deliver the King and the land from all peril.”  
  
“Oh, is that all?” Greg remarked snidely as he sipped his wine rather vigorously.  
  
Mycroft sighed. “As you recall, I told you the original name for the mythical sword was not Excalibur. Examine this title if you will, the title held by the first lord of my line; It’s Civil academic legitimate ideal benevolent ubiquitous royal notary.  Yes, apparently Arthur didn’t believe in short titles.”  
  
“Run that one by me again,” Greg demanded and got a pen out, scribbling on his napkin.  
  
“Civil Academic Legitimate Ideal Benevolent Ubiquitous Royal Notary,” Mycroft repeated, still patiently.  
  
“C.A.L.I.B.U.R.N. Got it,” Greg said, looking up from his writing.  
  
“I always said you were a smart man,” Mycroft smiled at him and indulged in a bit of wine himself. Miles opened the door slowly and glanced at them, seeking confirmation that he could enter. Gaining eye contact with him Mycroft nodded and beckoned him in. “It’s ok. It’s quite safe to come in now, right Gregory?”  
  
“Hmm? Oh, yes, please. Do come in. Did you bring wine?”  
  
“Giving the level of your raised voice I found it prudent to bring wine as well as a bottle of scotch, just in case, sir,” Miles said as he deposited both bottles in front of Greg.  “Would you like me to pour?”  
  
“Thank you, no. I can handle that part myself.” Greg managed a tired smile at Miles while refilling his wineglass. When Miles was gone, he continued, “so C.a.l.i.b.u.r.n. is in fact…” Greg struggled a bit with a description that would make more sense.  
  
“Britain’s first civil servant, yes,” Mycroft finished the sentence for him with ease.  
  
“And you being a civil servant makes you Caliburn too?” Greg suggested. “A secret-handshake furtive-club nickname for you guys?”  
  
“Hmm, a tad more involved than that,” Mycroft owned.  
  
“In what way?” Greg demanded.  
  
“In the sense that it’s an inherited title, and has been so in an unbroken line since Sir Galahad to April”.  
  
It got rather quiet in the room for a while.  
  
Finally, Greg blinked a few times and announced. “We’re going to need this scotch!”  
  
“If you say so, dear. I take it you have more questions?”  
  
“Just a few… your ancestor, Sir Galahad? Wasn’t he like the greatest knight? The one who found the grail and went straight to heaven?”  
  
“Yes, and he’s also supposed to have died a virgin, so let’s remember that this is mostly a myth, with a few facts strewn in here and there, but well hidden.” Mycroft uncorked the scotch and poured them both a glass.  
  
“So, he wasn’t a virgin?”  
  
“Obviously not! How could he have been my ancestor then? At least as far as we know. We don’t have a special family bible going back 1300 years with every single member of the family listed.”  
  
“So, what are you basing it on?”  
  
“Well, there is documentation of course, the most reliable starting with the doomsday book and then the oral tradition. It’s not something that we have ever questioned in the family; we’ve always just known it. From generation to generation in a line so old that it transcends registries and printed matter. But from around 1100 and on we do have a fully documented lineage of the family, and registration of the holders of the title.”  
  
“So your line goes straight back to Galahad?” Greg gaped.  
  
“I cannot prove it, unless we were to find his grave. If we could, I am convinced a DNA test would offer the conclusive proof. Not that it matters. For untold generations through 1300 years my family has held the position of first knight, the closest confidant of the Majesty and the responsibility for the realm being in a sound and functioning state.” Mycroft paused to sip his scotch.  
  
“You’re the bloody taxman!” Greg said accusingly, taking inspiration from Mycroft, sipping a little less daintily from his glass.  
  
“Oh, and so much more than that, Gregory dear. I hardly know where to begin. It’s a vast field we cover. Which is of course why it’s imperative that we plan April’s education well.”  
  
“April? April? Why April…. Oh, my GOD! Is she the next…?” Greg swayed a bit in his chair.  
  
“Yes, of course. She’s the first born. The title has never been dependant on gender, except for a few centuries in the dark ages, but we don’t talk about that. I am the 74th Excalibur, and April will be the 75th.”  
  
“Oh, so she never had any choice? Her career is already planned for her even though she is still in her crib?” Greg’s voice had raised a few octaves.  
  
“Yes, just as mine was for me, my fathers for him, and so forth going back 1300 years. Tradition, my dear Gregory, is what holds this great nation together.”  
  
The rest of the scotch disappeared from Greg’s glass.  
  
“I’m not…” Greg had to pause to clear his throat before trying again. “I’m not at all sure I approve of that.”  
  
“You wouldn’t break the line because you feel we’re depriving The Yard of a good female cop, now would you?” Mycroft had developed a sincere worry line above his eyebrows.  
  
“No, it’s not that. It’s just… well, that is a heavy burden to lay on such a little thing. She’ll grow up with virtually no choice. That’s horrible,” Greg wailed.  
  
“If we have more children she will in fact have a choice. When she is old enough she’ll be told about the position and the future that awaits her. She can, in theory, refuse it and pass it on to a sibling, but no one ever has. It is probably the most interesting job in the world, so to refuse it would be… unusual,” Mycroft explained.  
  
“So you had a choice? Your parents asked you?”  
  
Mycroft nodded in confirmation.  
  
“How old were you then?”  
  
“I was eight. It wasn’t until after Sherlock was born, and had proven to be sufficiently intelligent to take over if I reneged. But of course I didn’t. Once my parents had explained the education I would receive and the responsibilities and perks that came with the job, I accepted enthusiastically. Never the less, Sherlock received the same kind of in-depth training that I had, and was sent to the same universities. The heir and the spare as it were.”  
  
“So, now you want us to have a spare?”  
  
“Not quite yet, there should be a few years in between the Excalibur and the Scabbard.”  
  
“Oh, shut up Mycroft!“ Greg glared at Mycroft and refilled his glass. “You’re telling me that Sherlock is the Scabbard, what the heck ever that means? You better have more than this bottle of scotch around.”  
  
“Don’t worry, love. I have plenty. That is, we have plenty. What I have is yours. You are to be my husband, and now that you know the family secret, I think it’s time I introduce you to my employer.”  
  
“Your empl… you mean…?”  
  
“Yes, she’s been very keen to meet you, but felt we should be engaged first, and this very talk should have taken place. So now that you know, I’ll arrange a dinner at the palace. I would like you to experience a few of the perks for yourself, so you can help me guide April when the time comes.”  
  
“The perk of having bangers and mash with the queen every Friday?” Greg asked, curiously.  
  
“Not quite that often, but you’ll be surprised how much she actually loves that particular dish, so don’t be surprised to find it served at Balmoral. Anyway, she was going to see you soon anyway. You have been awarded an MBE for your outstanding service during the earthquake.” Mycroft smiled at the chock he read on Gregory’s face.  
  
“But… but I just did my job that day.”  
  
“Indeed. _Your_ job, as well as the job of four other men. The city owes you a great debt, so this is just a token of their appreciation. I was very proud of you that day,” Mycroft beamed at him.  
  
“Hang on… you’re not just trying to change the subject here, are you?” Greg asked suspiciously.  
  
“Not really, but if I am to explain to you what it is to be the scabbard, I’d like you to be a lot drunker first. Actually, I need to be a lot drunker too.”  
  
“Hmm. Does Sherlock even know? I  mean about him and you?”  
  
“Yes, in our particular case Sherlock has been informed about my position. Till I met you, and we decided on having April the lineage was very insecure. It was considered likely that Sherlock would have to take over after me if I died childlessly.”  
  
“And thus end a long and successful rule?” Greg snorted.  
  
“Probably. It wasn’t an ideal solution, and when he then turned out to have homosexual tendencies, which became apparent to anyone but himself, when John Watson moved in, mummy and I started to discuss options. There are a few cousins in the family that could have been brought in to play.”  
  
“But then…?”  
  
“But then you happened, my love. And the thought of a family, a child, even several children became an ideal I aspired towards, rather than a tradition to flee from.”  
  
“Have I told you I love you today?” Greg’s smile lit up the room.  
  
“Twice, but do continue,” Mycroft smiled back at him.  
  
“Let’s go to bed soon then, but do try to explain this whole ‘Sherlock is a scabbard’ thing to me first.”  
  
“I would love to, but… it is a bit shrouded in mystery. It’s obviously a title, like mine. The ‘Scabbard’ has always been nameless for that reason, it refers to the person waiting in the shadows to take over if the Caliburn fails to sustain the line.”  
  
“That kinda makes sense,” Greg acknowledged.  
  
“Yes, but then there are the stories of the healing capabilities of the Scabbard. There are many of them. I just can’t get it to fit with Sherlock. Not to mention how Moriarty could have survived the shot. I think I need to talk to my brother in order to formulate a theory.”  
  
“Yes, please do. I’m confused enough as it is right now. “  
  
“I’ll just try to see if I can get a hold of him,” Mycroft said and fished his phone out of his pocket, texting Sherlock.  
  
_Thursday 24th_ _May 22:36_  
_May we meet up tomorrow somewhere? I would like to discuss a few issues. – MH  
_  
The answer was prompt.  
  
_Thursday 24th_   _May 22:40  
__Can’t. Peggy, a member of my homeless network has spotted Moriarty in Glastonbury. We’re off to meet her there tonight. No telling where we’ll be tomorrow. – SH_  
  
“Oh damn, the hunt begins,” Mycroft sighed.

 

 

 

 

 

 


	16. The Scabbard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What exactly can the scabbard do? What is smoke, and what is fire?
> 
>  

 

 

It was a long night at the Rosslyn Hill residence. It was one of those rare occasions when both Mycroft and Greg had time off. A whole week in this instance with Mycroft beginning his two months of paternity leave, and Greg still having a week to go of his, passing the baton so to speak. So they were in no hurry to fall asleep, and in no hurry to get up. They agreed that for once they would let Nanny B get the honours of raising April in the morning, bathe her, and commence with the match of the day, meaning Team Nanny vs. Team April and Apple Sauce.  
  
Greg made the most of it, using all his favourite moves to make Mycroft squirm just exactly the way they both liked it. He hummed with pleasure as he drew long moans from Mycroft’s body, and revelled in the feeling of taught muscles, stretched to their breaking point in a passionate reach for completion and relief. He extended the foreplay to such a degree that Mycroft lost patience and simply reached up, grabbed Greg, placed him on his lap and drew him down on top of him. Greg didn’t object at all. He started a gently swaying rhythm while his fingers played with Mycroft’s nipples, so enticingly placed right in front of him, but soon he was rocked out of his mañana-tude by his partner’s impatience.  
  
Too aroused to ask politely Mycroft took command of the situation and rammed hard and fast into Gregory. His right hand took a firm hold of Gregory’s straining hard-on and pumped him mercilessly and efficiently. It wasn’t long before Gregory took up the pace himself, matching his lover and for a few, actually very few, glorious seconds they rode in wild and untamed unison till Gregory exploded, warm drops hitting Mycroft in the face and on his chest, resulting in an answering cascade inside Gregory.  
  
When Mycroft let go of Gregory’s hips he simply slumped down on top of Mycroft, heaving for breath, letting the cool night air chill his feet a bit as he wriggled into a comfortable position.  
  
Not unsurprisingly Mycroft had pushed him off come morning and Greg woke with a feeling of very sticky buns, and not the bready variety. He carefully slid out of bed and headed straight for the bathroom sighing as the water rinsed him off from the six shower heads they had strategically placed in the cubicle.  
  
He re-entered the bedroom while drying himself off, smiling as he saw Mycroft was awake, lounging on the bed. “Miles hasn’t been here with breakfast?” he wondered.  
  
“How can he when you triple-locked the door for good measure last night?” Mycroft laughed.  
  
“Darn it, we’ll have to actually nip down to the dining room to eat. Shower first?” Greg asked, dropping his towel and donning a housecoat.  
  
“Just a quick one, you don’t have to wait for me. Go say good morning to our daughter. I know you’re dying to,” Mycroft chortled as he got out of bed. “You’re practically making goo-goo noises already.”  
  
Greg offered him a prolonged “pffft,” as he unlocked the door – thrice – and went down the hall to April’s bedroom.    
  
After a short, but informative and solemn debate about the merits of applesauce versus formulae Greg let April have the last word and left her in the capable hands of Nanny B. He went down to the dining room and made two cups of tea, just the way they liked them. Shortly after Mycroft joined him, fully dressed for a day off, which meant a nice pair of slacks and a rose-coloured polo. Greg loved him out of three-piece suits and let his smile convey that message.  
  
“Plans for today?” Greg asked as he buttered a piece of toast.  
  
“Not quite sure. Depends a bit on whether I can get a hold of my brother at any point.”  
  
“That’s always a gamble, at best. And if he’s running around Glastonbury, who knows… have you left a message for him?”  
  
“I’ve called him a couple of times, but he doesn’t answer. And no, nor does John, I’ve tried,” Mycroft forestalled that suggestion.  
  
“Just give it a couple of hours, and try again,” Greg suggested pragmatically as he filled his plate from the little buffet. “Are you too sober to try to explain your scabbard-theories to me?”  
  
“Probably,” Mycroft joked while mimicking Gregory’s actions. “But I can give it a try.” He sat down and began eating his breakfast and  sharing his thoughts. “There is very little written about the scabbard, save the fact that it can save lives in battle, heal wounds, and is nameless. None of these things can be said about my brother,” he extrapolated.

“Well, certainly not nameless,” Greg agreed.  
  
“I’d not really call him a life saver either,” Mycroft chuckled, and then looked pensive. “Hmm, come to think of it, it _is_ a bit of a miracle that John has stayed alive this long, being so close to Sherlock.”

“I suppose you could see it that way.” Greg chewed thoughtfully on his toast, trying to count all the times he’d had to get Sherlock out of mortal danger.  
  
“I suppose you could say it’s a miracle that _I_ am alive. I grew up with the little menace in the house,” Mycroft elaborated.  
  
“To be fair, you were away at school a lot.”  
  
“Yes, but the holidays were very, very long. Very long when being deduced by your little brother, followed everywhere you went, inspected, interrogated, examined and observed within an inch of your life. Can you imagine what it was like  being a horny teenager trying to find a quiet place to have a wank, only to find that your brother had drilled a hole into your bathroom wall to spy on you?”  
  
Greg coughed on his toast, wagging a finger at Mycroft for his ill timing. He took a big swig of his tea to clear his throat. “Don’t… don’t… fucking say something like that when I’ve just taken a big bite. Are you trying to kill me?”  
  
“No, of course not. Sorry, but…” Mycroft stopped talking and stared at Greg for a while. “Actually… you didn’t die when you were shot, at Sherlock’s flat. You nearly died at the hospital, but then Sherlock arrived and…”  
  
“Really? You think your brother oozes immortality to those around him?”

“No, no. It can’t be. It’s a ridiculous theory, I must try to… oh, excuse me,” he said as his phone rang. “Hello?” he said and then held the phone out from his ear as a result of the frantic screaming on the other end. “Calm down, please calm down, John, I can’t understand a word you’re saying.”  
  
The caller seemed to pause for a bit, and then continued, loud enough that even Greg could hear it. “He’s gone. Fucking come out here and help me. Moriarty must have him. Both him and Peggy.  I can’t find the bodyguards either, something has gone really fucking wrong, Mycroft.”  
  
Greg reacted first. He threw down his knife and fork and ran upstairs to get dressed. Mycroft kept John on the phone and got as many details from him as it was possible, and by the time Greg came back down again he had called the car, and found their coats. “Let’s go,” Greg said. “I’ll call the Glastonbury police when we’re en route. Did you get any more from John?”  
  
“Very little. He’s in shock. Apparently he was knocked out in an alley in the early hours of the morning, and when he came to there was no sign of Sherlock.”

The car pulled around and when they had entered and given the address, Mycroft sent John a short text with their expected ETA. Then he texted Anthea and told her to send operatives to the address. As an afterthought he added that they should probably also bring a doctor.  
  
Mycroft had turned quite pale, and Greg gave his hand a reassuring squeeze. “It’s Sherlock, ok? He’s been in bigger trouble. I think.”  
  
“I think not,” Mycroft said gloomily.  
  
  
  



	17. A chip on your shoulder

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With Sherlock missing, John is a handful to control – to say the least. But he’s got two pros on hand, and it shows.

 

[g](http://pic20.picturetrail.com/VOL154/13724366/24676370/412653538.jpg)

First thing when they arrived in Glastonbury Mycroft commandeered all seven rooms at Hawtorns hotel for themselves and his agents. It wasn’t long before they were joined by Anthea, a doctor and a team.  Mycroft brought the doctor up to John’s room and told him to examine the injured man.  
  
“Not now,” John protested as they entered, even though he clearly couldn’t rise from the bed he was reclining on.  
  
“Yes, right now,” Mycroft insisted.  
  
“I don’t have time for this. I need to talk to you first.”  
  
“No, John!” Mycroft repeated.  
  
“I don’t give a flying fuck about your agenda, Mycroft, I need to know what you intend to do about finding She…”  
  
“Again, no, John! Look at me! Really look at me and just for once acknowledge that I am in charge of this situation, and we are not proceeding till you let this doctor examine you!”  
  
“It’s fucking ridi…”  
  
“Oh, can it, doc. You’re not the only bone mechanic in the world, ok? You just have to sit back for five bleeding minutes and let another doctor examine you, and let us know that you are ok. Ok? I really don’t like the blood running down the side of your head. It just not how you’re supposed to wear it this season, dickhead. So let’s get you back into fashion.” Greg tried to get eye contact with John, which was difficult as his eyes were going everywhere but at the person trying to look at him. Right now he was trying to glare daggers at Mycroft, who was busy checking messages on his Blueberry.  
  
“John, you tit!” Greg frowned as John tried to rise, groaning and huffing. “If you don’t relax, how can we trust what you’re saying? We need a proper statement from you if we are to get Sherlock back!” Greg insisted, pushing John down on the bed, hoping he’d let the doctor they brought have a go.  
  
“Two minutes, you hack,” John spat at the poor doctor desperately trying to do his job. “Two minutes to find out there’s nothing wrong with me, and then bugger off, all right?”  
  
“That will be entirely up to me to decide, and I’ll take as long as I like,” the guy answered him, trying to at least seem unperturbed by his erratic patient – who was anything but that. “Or,” he smiled broadly down at John, “I could just shoot you full of Alprazolam and take my sweet time with you.”  
  
“You wouldn’t….?” John’s mouth gaped.  
  
“Just watch me. Now, will you let me work?”  
  
John nodded dejectedly and let the physician examine him, obediently moving his head as instructed as the man checked his eye movements; he rolled up his sleeve for a blood pressure check, pulse and all his other vitals. After what John deemed an unacceptably long period of time, which was in fact just under seven minutes, the doctor declared John in a fit state with a one hundred percent chance of a headache in his near future. He gave him a couple of Anadins for that and retreated hastily with a nod towards Mycroft.  
  
Mycroft pocketed his phone and sat down on the edge of the bed. “Now, John, perhaps we can have a more reasonable conversation and you can tell us what happened. In your own words, but quite quickly please.”  
  
John glared at Mycroft for a moment, but didn’t comment on the brotherly cliché. “We had just had dinner with a young woman, Peggy, who is one of Sherlock’s network contacts. She’s homeless and is basically just drifting around the country doing odd jobs. She looked starved when we met up with her, so we took her to a grill and we all ate a bit. Didn’t really have much time to talk to her, the way she stuffed her mouth, though.”  
  
Mycroft interrupted him. “We? Sherlock actually ate?”  
  
“Well, we have been on the case for months, so he can’t really hold off eating till we’re done with this. So yeah, he basically eats…”  
  
“Right, right, enough of your lover’s dietary requirements, what happened then?” Greg broke in, impatiently.  
  
“Right… well, we were going back from the grill to the hotel. Sherlock mentioned getting her a room, since he wanted some place to talk to her, and didn’t want to bring her to our room. She was quite enthusiastic about that, and Sherlock had just mentioned that she’d better have something significant to add to the investigation when we turned into an ally, and I was knocked out from behind.”  
  
“Which ally?” Greg demanded.”  
  
“The one leading down to the hotel from St. John’s square,” John explained.  “Why?”  
  
“Cause I’m going to go search it for clues, numbskull. Sure we shouldn’t get that doctor back? You’re not usually this slow,” Greg glared at him, the worry dominant in his voice.  
  
“Yes, of course. Sorry. Might be a bit woozy still,” John apologised.  
  
“Right, you better stay in bed while we conduct the investigation. I’ll leave a guard by the door,” Greg suggested.  
  
“Why, Greg? If anyone wanted me, don’t you think they would have taken me too when they took Sherlock?” John was beginning to sound like himself again.  
  
“Point. But better safe than sorry. Not risking losing you too,” Greg insisted and got up to find some of the local officers.  
  
When the door closed behind him John engaged pleading eyes on Mycroft. “Please find your brother, will you? Don’t you have some sort of brotherly seventh sense of his whereabouts?”  
  
“Hmm, I wish. What I do in fact have is a tiny chip, embedded in his…”  
  
“You have a WHAT?” John sat up so fast that he felt the room spinning and flumped back down again, fighting to maintain eye contact with Mycroft. “So you know… you know where he is? Why didn’t you tell me, you bastard?”  
  
“Because I’m not receiving a signal from him.” Mycroft showed John a signal-less map on his phone, “which is quite exasperating. I don’t know why it stopped working, but there is all manner of explanations as to why the signal is blocked.“  
  
“Like what?” John looked like a man that needed explanations fast.  
  
“Distance, he could be hundreds of miles from here. He could be out of the country. Materials, he could be sheltered behind lead, thick steel doors, mattresses et cetera. Depth, he could be in a submarine. Height, he could be on a plane. Detection, it could have been found and removed. And so forth,“ Mycroft explained.  
  
“Found? Where is it?” John wondered.  
  
“Oh, it’s in his shoulder. I had it implanted when he had the surgery after his trip to Sweden. I thought it might be nice to receive alerts of his imminent presence in the future, in case he should try to… surprise me again.” Mycroft flicked an imaginary piece of dust from his trousers, pointedly ignoring the glare John tried to send him.  
  
“So, seriously, Mycroft, how do we find him?” John’s voice took on an edge of anxiety.  
  
“Police work, good old fashioned police work. Interview witnesses, door to door inquiries, combing the landscape. All the stuff that Gregory is really quite excellent at, so try not to fret too much. He may be kidnapped, but he’s still Sherlock Holmes. He doesn’t stay down for long”.  
  
The comfort sat oddly well with John who managed a feeble smile.  
  
“We’ll find him. Or he’ll turn up. In the meantime, tell me what you know of Peggy and what she may know. Didn’t she say anything to you? What was in her original message?”  Mycroft had gone from consoling nearly-brother-in-law to business-as-usual in two seconds flat, his phone in his hand, ready to note comments.  
  
“In her text to Sherlock she had written that someone had tried to hire her for some unsavoury work, and she had heard the name of Moriarty mentioned. This had made her run like hell. That initially got Sherlock very interested. She wouldn’t give him any more details till we got here, but while we ate she kept babbling about this being the island or something like that, in between bites. I told her we weren’t looking for an island, but she just kept nodding and insisting that we should be.”  
  
“Go on,” Mycroft encouraged, typing in a few more words.  
  
“There’s not really much more. As we were walking back she and Sherlock were a bit in front of me, and I couldn’t really hear what they were saying.”  
  
“How inattentive of you, John.”  
  
“Yeah, well… it’s hard to pay attention when you’re knocked down from behind and find yourself in the land of the unconscious.”  
  
“Well, yes. I can see how that can be an impediment,” Mycroft conceded and looked up as Gregory returned. “That was quick,” he remarked.  
  
“Well, the ally is just around the corner here, so it didn’t take long to find someone. There was a witness, a woman came out to talk to us when she recognised us as police. She had seen two men get knocked down, and one of them pushed into a big black car.”  
  
“What? She saw it… and didn’t call for help? What a bi…” John sat up too fast again and lay back down with a groan.  
  
“Yes, we may, in fact, charge her for that. Her excuse was the usual. Didn’t want to get involved. Thought you were drug dealers, hippies or worse,” Greg explained.  
  
John almost foamed and Mycroft got up to get him a glass of water.  
  
“At least she came forwards now, with a pretty good description of the car, so I think we have a fair chance of finding it. The local cops are going door to door in the area now to hear if anyone else has seen anything.”  
  
Mycroft returned with the glass and handed it to John. “Hang on, love. Did you say only one of them was pushed into the car?”  
  
Greg checked his notes. “Yup.”  
  
“What happened to the young lady then? Hmm?” Mycroft asked, his frown making his nose wrinkle in that adorable way that made it difficult for Gregory to keep his hands off it.

”They didn’t take her,” Greg realised. ”Why didn’t they take her? And if they didn’t, where is she?” Greg was on autopilot, asking all the right questions for once. Sherlock would have been proud. He rounded on John. “John, I know you’re not feeling too well, and your head hurts a bit, but I need you to think and remember. We need to find her, and we’re going to need your help in making a facial composite of her.”

“No, not rea…” John began.”  
  
“Yes, we really do. She could be a vital witness,” Greg interrupted him, “and in order to get it absolutely correct I think you should send for your best people in this field, My.”

“Absolutely, I agree. I have an excellent expert in this particular art. I’ll have Anthea put her on a chopper in a heartbeat.”  
  
“No, please don’t…” John protested.  
  
“Sorry, John.” Greg gave him a sympathetic small smile. “I know, you want to use the local guys ‘cause they are here and it’ll be faster, but trust us. Ok? It’ll be worth the extra time to wait for My’s expert to arrive. She is simply so good at interpreting your clues into face shapes, and with your head injury, it’s imperative that we get the very best.”

“No, you morons!” John struggled to sit up in the bed.  
  
“Being a bit insulting there, mate,” Greg warned him. “We’re all just trying to help.”  
  
“No, you… You don’t have to bring in a composite artist or anything like that. I have a bleeding photo of her at dinner. In my phone. Over there. If you would just kindly hand it to me.” John pointed to the little desk where his coat was resting, his phone prominently displayed on top of it.  
  
“Oh!” Greg looked crestfallen, then turned to My for reassurance, but just received a shrug and a heavy sigh. “Right… here you are,” he said as he retrieved the phone and handed it to John.

“Ok, then…” John was biting his lip to focus his dissembling mind on the small icons on the phone, yet still deftly managing to pull up the photo of Peggy biting into a chicken sandwich while Sherlock was making a silly face in the background. He hoped the other two men didn’t notice the pang of pain the image of his lost lover sent through his entire frame. He hurried to turn the phone to Greg. “Here she is. Tall, pretty, silly, hungry and posing for me because she wanted to send her mum picture proof that she did in fact eat now and then.”  
  
“You’re a gem, John. Sorry for… just sorry. I’ll just get this printed and distributed to the guys. I’ll be right back.” And with that Greg made a quick exit leaving Mycroft and John alone once again.

  
\--** --

  
_’I’m awake. I think I’m awake. If I can think I must be awake.’_ Sherlock shook his head and tried to sit up. And failed miserably – none of his limbs responded as he expected them to. That’s when the shock struck him fully. He could not. He could not move at all. And worse still, he wasn’t even lying down. He flexed his arms tentatively, but though he felt the muscles tense the arms didn’t move. Not an inch. He tried to kick, but no part of his leg moved up, forwards, or in any direction. He frowned. And took a deep breath, focusing his mind on the here and now. He eventually forced one eye open even though the pain to his head set off alarms all the way up and down his neural pathways. It was worth it, though. The incoming data was plentiful. The camera pointed in his direction. The high resolution lamps angled for the perfect illumination. The two men in ridiculous leather outfits. The table with the syringe, the saline, the toys. There was so much data, and combined with his position as the Vitruvian man, legs spread and fixed to a St. Andrews cross with multiple leather strips, there was not much left to his imagination. He groaned with the tediousness of it all.

  


_Honestly… I could not have made it up. Their hotel is  
between St. John’s Square and Benedict Street._

 

 


	18. Such a wasted first

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There’s a little bonus for Mycroft in this case that he hadn’t expected, but he’s good at finding the silver lining. However, blackmail is on the horizon, and it is never pretty – not even in Glastonbury. They still have no clue as to who has Sherlock - but Mycroft is about to find out what they are doing to him. He may find more than he wanted to.
> 
>  

 

  
The disc was delivered in a plain brown envelope, and no one had seen anyone put it on the bar desk at Hawtorns Hotel. It bore Mycroft’s name written in a neat, but bold, writing with no other marks, not even a stamp. Mycroft paled visibly when the clerk at the hotel rang him about it, smart enough not to touch it himself, but rather let the serious looking men from London handle it. Mycroft’s men photographed it, x-rayed it, dusted the envelope and the bar for prints but found nothing but a cd inside it bearing a label stating that it was ‘To be viewed by Mycroft Holmes and none other.’  
  
Mycroft didn’t view it in the end. Greg interceded, demanding to spare Mycroft from what would in no way be a pleasant experience. He had some idea what would be on it, and they were all rather sure that it would involve some form of blackmail or ransom demand, so whatever it was wouldn’t be pleasant, and Greg had no intention of subjecting his fiancée to that. Besides, Mycroft was awfully busy with Peggy.  
  
Gregory really was a marvel, Mycroft mused. Not only was he the prettiest man in the country, but as a policeman he was unmatched. Once he had seen the photo of Peggy it had barely been a matter of an hour before he had hauled her in to the hotel, safely secured in handcuffs. The most important witness Mycroft had ever needed was now served up on a platter for him. Oh, he was going to make Gregory a very happy man once this was over.  
  
Ignoring the anthill that was apparently building their community in his stomach, Mycroft went downstairs, leaving Gregory to watch the contents of the disc, and later report to him as delicately as possible. He nodded at the guard at the door to the little office and entered. Inside sat a very tired, rather subdued young woman, who never the less straightened up her considerable height and stared straight at him when he entered.  
  
He took a chair at the desk across from her and made himself comfortable. He looked appraisingly at her for a minute, staying silent for long enough to make her fidgety. He enjoyed this small first victory.  
  
He wasn’t actually trying to distress her further, but rather driven by a selfish need to know, left her in further limbo by using his phone to text Greg. ‘ _Let me know gently if it’s torture, blackmail or sex abuse or any combination of those. If he’s dead, please come tell me in person. And don’t tell John, which ever it is_! - _MH._ ’ He took a deep breath, stealing himself for whatever it would be and put the phone down on the table, face up.  
  
“So you assumed it was a good idea to plot a ruse for Sherlock Holmes…  are you particularly gifted or just spectacularly retarded, my little friend?” he asked with the thinnest smile his lips had ever pressed forwards.  
  
“I…nemndmm…” she said, mumbling the majority of her answer.  
  
“Pardon me?” Mycroft said, raising his voice just a tad, his eyebrows following suit.  
   
“I needed the money,” she spat out. “Look man, I’m not exactly living the good life here. I sleep under bridges on bad days and in charity shelters on good ones. I don’t smell like this because my deodorant is an inferior label. It’s because I haven’t owned one for two years, ok?”  
  
“Actually, it is supremely inacceptable,” Mycroft said and wrinkled his nose for good measure. “But it looks like I have no alternative but to suffer it for now. However, your olfactory offenses do rather pale against your felonious actions towards aiding unknown villains in abducting the illustrious detective for nefarious purposes.“  
  
“Do you even speak English?” Peggy sneered, glaring at him, pretending to chew on a piece of gum she didn’t have but desperately wished she did.  
  
Mycroft ignored her and checked his phone for a message from Gregory. There wasn’t one. A sudden need to activate himself made him stand, turning his back on her. “I’m getting a cup of tea. Wait for me here.”  
  
“Oi! Bring me one too! I haven’t had fuck all since you pigs hauled me in here, dumping me in this tiny room, and I haven’t done nuffing wrong! I was just trying to get some kip on that bench, you blooming idio…”  
  
“SHUT UP!” Mycroft roared without turning around. He continued in a more subdued, calm voice, suppressing his instinct to throttle her on the spot. “I may or may not bring you a cup as well. Whether I shall give it to you, however, entirely depends on your level of cooperation. You were not arrested for sleeping on a bench, as you bloody well know! Think about that while I am gone.” And with that parting note he left, leaving her fuming at the empty chair.  
  
“Tea. Two cups. Black!” He barked at the poor barman across the small hall in the hotel, making the man disappear into the kitchen like the devil was on his back. Mycroft bit back a sigh of frustration. He knew he could break the girl in the room behind him, it would be easily done, but it might not help his brother at all, and he would have broken her in vain. He never broke something he could use. It was the principle that kept his family in power. A lot of power. He smiled when Anthea entered and handed him a file, her timing excellent as always.  
  
When Mycroft returned with two cups of tea he also brought the plain manila folder. He put down both cups in front of himself and, ignoring Peggy, opened the folder and read in silence for a while. When Peggy cleared her throat he looked up at her, staring with puzzlement, as if he’d forgotten her presence.  
  
“Ah, yes. Peggy. Or shall we use your real name, Margaret? Margaret Victoria Hopkins.”  
  
Peggy twisted slightly, and her eyes flew open at the name. Her mouth scrunched up and she wrinkled her nose at Mycroft, but she stayed silent.  
  
“Oh, lost your tongue? Or can’t you decide on which fake accent to use?” Mycroft smiled as she glared at him. “There really is no point in playing the tough, homeless tosser with me, Margaret. I have you pegged.” He paused to take a sip of his tea. “So what say you drop this silly facade and talk to me?”  
  
“Fine!” Margaret said. “Can I have that cup of tea now?” Her accent had changed considerably and Mycroft slowly pushed the cup towards her as a reward.  
  
“Now, isn’t this easier? Not all that subterfuge.” He steepled his hands under his chin and looked at her. “Why is a fully qualified lawyer with a first from Cambridge living rough in the land?”  
  
“It’s my choice,” she said as she sipped at the tea, wincing as she drank it too fast and burnt her tongue.  
  
“I dare say that it is. You are well over 21. But why?”  
  
“I didn’t want it. None of it.”  
  
“None of what?” Mycroft asked with more patience than he was feeling.  
  
“The good life. The orderly life. The average, high middle class, townhouse, two-car family, annual golf holiday, ten hour workdays, city clients in pinstriped suits, early ulcer, early retirement, a lifetime of respectable boredom.” She managed to look both sad and defiant as she quoted her credo to him. “I opted out.”  
  
“Then why did you spend all those years cramming, studying, being the best?” Mycroft prodded.  
  
“To fit in. To please the peeps. My parents coughed up a lot of money for my education so I could copy their sad lives. It wasn’t till I was done that I realised this was merely the beginning. Having passed my exams only meant that now I had to get on with the ruddy life they expected of me. I couldn’t. I simply couldn’t, so I packed a bag, left my room, sold my car and hit the road. I haven’t looked back once.” She drank down half her cup, apparently ignoring that it was actually quite warm. She slammed the cup back down, hammering it in to the table for emphasis.  
  
“So how have you survived?” Mycroft sipped his tea more delicately than she had manhandled hers.  
  
“Odd jobs, anything I could get. Dishwasher, dog walker, housepainter, garden work, and… helping out that detective that this is all about on occasion, when he needed someone on the street.”  
  
“Yes, I am familiar with his so-called ‘homeless network’,” Mycroft sighed. He had never approved of Sherlock’s alternative agents.  
  
“Well, he would pay a fair price, could keep me going for a while, and the work was easy,” she mused.  
  
“So you paid him back by setting him up for a fall. Luring him in with the very truth; that someone was trying to hire you. How very Machiavellian of you,” Mycroft allowed a hint of anger to creep into his voice.  
  
“Had to. Sorry, didn’t know he was that important.” She briefly made eye contact with him, then looked down at her cup again.  
  
“Were you threatened into it? Bullied? Coerced?”  
  
“Nothing like that. I can take care of myself!”  
  
“I bet!” Mycroft snorted.  
  
“It was the money.” She shrugged. “They offered me so much. I would be able to buy a flat or a little house somewhere, maybe grow some crops and have some animals, live off the land, and sell the surplus. It was a way off the streets, without having to crawl back to my parents and the pin striped suit.”  
  
“I’ve never heard of anyone taking a first in the law who has such contempt for it.”  
  
“Oh, I love the law. It’s neat and clean and logical. It’s the law firms that give me the hives,” she admitted. “But all that doesn’t matter now anyway,” she said and slumped back in her chair. “I assume I’m in for a long prison spell. If I’m lucky?” She raised an eyebrow as she looked at him again.  
  
“Oh? You expect something worse from me?” Mycroft wondered.  
  
“Yeah, you’re not exactly the regular police, are you now? What are you? MI5 or 6? Or something even more sinister and clandestine that has cropped up since the world went haywire? I bet you could have me ‘disappear’ without no-one ever finding me.”  
  
“Anyone,” Mycroft automatically corrected her. “And you are quite right, I could.”  
  
She shivered at the thought, but seemed resigned to her fate. With a wry smile she said: “Do your worst then.”  
  
“Oh, I will,” Mycroft assured her, inspecting an imaginary imperfection on his fingernail. “I know exactly what to do with you.” He ignored her heavy sigh, ending on a slightly shaky note. “You managed to set a trap for Sherlock Holmes, you have a first in Law from Cambridge and you have survived living rough for nearly three years. Your training as an agent will begin tomorrow and you can forget all about pin striped suits!”  
  
She sat up and stared at him with huge eyes.  
  
“Today my assistant will take you to our Vauxhall offices where you will be given a… room, a bath and some proper clothes. You will spend the remainder of the afternoon writing a full report to me about everything you know in relation to the kidnapping, including detailed descriptions of anyone you have been in contact with. I expect it delivered to me here by mail no later than seven o’clock. But first you will tell me, is it Moriarty? Have you met him?”  
  
She shook her head, and Mycroft wasn’t sure if it was in denial or if she was trying to clear it. “I… no… I mean… yes, I’ll… bloody hell! You mean that? Me? An agent? Actual 007 stuff? I… yes, I know. Pull yourself together, Peggy. And no, I haven’t seen that disgusting little man. The man I met with was tall, lean, well built, military type, said his name was Charles, but I’m more than a little sure that it isn’t. He paid me ten thousand up front and gave me a vivid description of how slowly they would kill me if I failed.”  
  
“Good. Describe him to our composite artist when you get to Vauxhall, I’m sure we can find him. And don’t worry. He won’t find you.”  
  
“I should hope not,” she said and shivered again at the memory.  
  
“Right. Off you go then. Do not make me regret this.”  
  
“Shit. I don’t even know your name. And who is your organisation then?” she exclaimed.  
  
“My name is Mycroft. Mycroft Holmes.” She inhaled sharply and blushed slightly when hearing the name. “But you can call me ‘sir’. And I’ll tell you about the organisation when I deem you ready. Till then, prove yourself, behave yourself and help me find my brother!”  
  
“Yes sir,” she said with a hint of a smile.  
  
“Anthea, she’s all yours,” he said as he opened the door, letting Anthea in. He went in search of Gregory and some answers that he may not like.  
  
He knocked on the door to their room and got an instant “Just a second” reply, and it was indeed only a matter of seconds before the door was opened, and Gregory ushered him in.  
  
“Sit down,” Greg said. “Would you like some tea?”  
  
“I’ve just had some. I’d rather have information, please. You haven’t sought me out, so I’m assuming he’s alive?”  
  
“Yes, don’t worry. It’s as we figured. Blackmail material. I’m assuming you’ll get some demands very soon, now that we know what they have.” Greg poured himself a glass of water and downed half of it in one go.  
  
“And what exactly is it they have then?” Mycroft smirked in anticipation of the answer.  
  
“A sex video. Starring Sherlock, yes… I know,” he held up a forestalling hand as Mycroft was about to explode. “He’s not volunteering, I can assure you. He’s tied up in various imaginative positions and wanked within an inch of his life with hands, mouths, toys, you name it. Fucked too, I’m afraid. It’s edited of course, sound and clips added, quite cleverly, so you think he’s into it. There’s quite a few scenes of someone coming, but they are cropped so tightly it could be anyone. Only once do they manage to make him come in a full body shot.”  
  
“He does? Really?” Mycroft found that hard to believe.  
  
“Yes, well, honestly… I don’t know how long I could have lasted with what they do to him. They really know what they’re doing.”  
  
“Who are ‘they’, these… well, wankers?” Mycroft leered at his own pun.  
  
“Not anyone I’ve ever seen. There are two guys. I’m not sure if there is any technical staff around, but there are two guys that are… working on Sherlock. One is short and blond, I could almost guess they have deliberately tried to find someone who looks like John, and the other, the one that has actually… you know, penetrated him, is tall, well built…”  
  
“Let me guess, military type?” Mycroft offered.  
  
“Yes, I’d say so. You know him?”  
  
“No, but Peggy described him. Can you get me a few screen shots for ID?”  
  
“Sure, and I’ll try to describe the surroundings and look for clues. But it’s hard. I think they are in a basement or something. The room seems pretty nondescript, and the acoustics seem… odd.”  
  
“This won’t be easy,” Mycroft acknowledged, “but we have to find him fast. If John finds out about this…”  
  
“He won’t for a while. I accidently slipped him a little vial of something the doctor gave me, before I went to our room and started on the film. He’ll be out for at least twelve hours.”  
  
“Good thinking. We can’t really have him poking around in such a delicate situation. I guess now all we have to do is wait.” Mycroft got up to take his jacket off and hung it on the chair, putting his phone on the small table beside him. “I’d give good money for a glass of fine whiskey right now,” he sighed.  
  
“I’ll get you one. I’ll just pop down to the bar,” Greg promised.  
  
“I shouldn’t. I need my head clear.”  
  
“A small one. You also need your heart steady. I’ll join you. I’ll be right back, love.”  
  
Mycroft smiled as he heard Gregory’s fast footfall and figured he was probably taking the steps down two at a time. Just as the steps faded, his phone rang. He closed his eyes to compose himself and answered it with a sense of foreboding. “Hello?” he said, tentatively.  
  
“Mr Holmes senior?” a deep voice greeted him.  
  
“Speaking,” Mycroft confirmed.  
  
“I think we should talk. Now that I have used your brother as the scabbard he is, let’s talk about the sword. Shall we?”

 

 

 

 

 

 


	19. Colonel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What is it they want with Sherlock? And who are they really? Mycroft faces his most dangerous enemies yet and the peril to the realm grows.

 

“I think we should talk. Now what I have used your brother as the scabbard he is, let’s talk about the sword. Shall we?”  
  
“Must we?” Mycroft sighed, even though he knew the answer.  
  
“Unless you want your brother’s face, and the rest of him, distributed all over the internet on the various sites offering entertainment to lonely, sex-starved men, and the occasional woman. But if you think he’ll prefer that…” the gravelly voice tapered off.  
  
“No, of course not,” Mycroft acknowledged.  “Tell me what you want.”  
  
“Not that simple, I’m afraid. It’s not what I want. It’s what my employer wants.”  
  
“Oh, so you’re not the mastermind of this? I was assured that you were very active in the little charade with my brother.” Mycroft tried hard not to think of the scenes Gregory had described for him as delicately as possible.  
  
“You didn’t see it yourself? You’re a coward at heart, after all. You were instructed in viewing this personally!” his opponent sneered.  
  
“I’ll show you how much of a coward I am when I’ve caught up with you, Mr…?” Mycroft promised him.  
  
“You can call me Moran. Colonel Moran.”  
  
“I doubt you’re a colonel in any army that I acknowledge. So who is your boss? A snivelling little Irishman hiding behind his hired gun, or some African dictator who thinks he can get the better of me?”  
  
“You know who he is,” the colonel answered flatly.  
  
Mycroft felt like someone was melting an ice cube down his spine. “I was afraid of that.” He closed his eyes to compose himself before continuing. “And what does Moriarty want in return for my brother?”  
  
“Oh, we’re not talking about returning your brother. Not yet. Perhaps not ever. That’s not what this is about,” the antagonist said curtly.  
  
Mycroft only took a second to repress his panic at that announcement. “What? What then?” Mycroft was oddly confused, not a regular state for him.  
  
“Do exactly as we demand, and we won’t release the film. You know that little bit of smut would ruin your reputation in Whitehall, as well as your brother’s. We’ll of course make sure that his identity as the star is revealed. The Daily Mail and The Sun will have a field day.”  
  
“Yes, obviously”, Mycroft sighed heavily. “But you can’t expect me to negotiate with you if Sherlock’s release is not on the table.” He regretted his words as soon as he’d said them.  
  
“Oh, but his release is everywhere,” Moran snickered. His moronic giggle made Mycroft want to reach through the phone and throttle him.   
  
“Yes, quite. Don’t pretend you don’t know what I mean. I will not negotiate with you unless you can promise his safe and prompt return.”  
  
“I can’t promise you that. Jim likes to watch him. And no one takes Jim’s toys away from him.”  
  
“Oh, good God, man! My brother is not a toy.”  
  
Moran abruptly stopped snickering and grew serious. “We know. He’s the scabbard, and while we control him, we control the sword. You can’t seriously think we’ll give up this vantage point till we have what we want, do you?”  
  
Mycroft felt an oncoming headache and pinched his nose. “And just what is it that you want?”  
  
“We want to control you, of course. Well, Jim does. Since he deserves to rule the land, he needs a certain leverage over you.” Moran delivered the demand as calmly as if he was ordering lunch.  
  
“Hmm,” Mycroft smirked. “I see. He’s alive, but he did lose his brains after all.”  
  
“Careful how you speak of him. You owe him respect as your sovereign,” Moran sneered.  
  
Mycroft began to suspect that Moran might just be a bit mentally challenged himself. Oh, how he hated madmen. There was no logic to them, and consequently they were unpredictable. For once he really missed his little brother. He, if anyone, knew how to deal with a madman. He sighed and tried to find some sort of progress in these talks. “So, what must I do to keep that film off the grid then?”  
  
“You cut straight to the point. I like that. A man of action, like myself.”  
  
“Less talk, more action,” Mycroft prompted him snidely.  
  
“Oi! But ok, here’s what to do first.” Moran cleared his throat and continued. “Within a week you will have the palace issue a press release announcing that the Prince of Wales will not accept the crown when his time comes. He’ll pass the honour on straight to his son.”  
  
“What? Why on Earth… how can that possibly benefit you?” Mycroft spat.  
  
“Oh, there’ll be more. Later on. Till the right crown is on the right head.”  
  
“You really are mad.” Mycroft shook his head, giving up on this whole affair. “You know what you ask is impossible. I don’t have that kind of power, and even if I did…”  
  
Moran interrupted him angrily. “Oh, yes you will. I know the film will ridicule you, and possibly ruin your brother’s career, but if that is not enough we’re quite prepared to send you little bits of  him in the mail. Moriarty doesn’t necessarily need all of him to have fun.”  
  
“You wouldn’t! Don’t you dare. Just… don’t!” Mycroft was beginning to panic slightly. “Let me see what I can do. I’ll… I’ll talk to the palace, ask some favours, talk to… old friends. But I’ll need time.”  
  
“You have exactly a week. That is to say, five working days, so we expect this to be the breaking news story on Friday night six o’clock news, ‘right?”  
  
“And then I’ll get my brother back?” Mycroft ventured.  
  
“No, that’ll keep the film off the air and your brother intact. You will not see him again till England has a new and rightful king. Till Friday.”

                 The phone went dead.  
  
Mycroft stared at the device in his hand as if it was a demon that had sprung from his wrist.  
  
Greg opened the door and came through with a small bottle and two glasses.  
  
“If you don’t mind me saying it, you look a bit worse for wear. I think you need this,” he said as he poured Mycroft a small glass, handing it to him before pouring himself one. He paled when he saw Mycroft down his drink in one gulp and hold the glass out for more.  
  
“They called?”  
  
“They called!”  
  
“And what is the situation?” Greg sat down on the bed after refilling Mycroft’s glass.  
  
“They’re mad. They’re mad as hatters. And Sherlock is in serious trouble.” Mycroft sipped at his whiskey, feeling the warmth spread through his chest, oddly soothing.  
  
“In that case I may have come good news for you,” Greg said and smiled. “I think I may know where Sherlock is.”  
  
“Don’t jest when the situation is this dour,” Mycroft sulked.  
  
“No, seriously. Just chatted to the barkeep about which hideaways there would be around here where signals would be cut off. And there is a bloody obvious one.” Greg was looking really serious now.  
  
“You don’t mean…?” Mycroft sat up straight, realisation hitting him hard.  
  
“I bloody do! Shall I call a few cars around?”  
  
“Geronimo!” Mycroft yelled. “Let’s go catch that bloody madman and get my brother back!”

  
 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short. I know. But I had to get this off the day before series four airs. I have my theories, and they may be put to an abrupt death by Moftiss right away.But I won't second guess myself now, nor even let them - so here I am posting never the less. Hope you have all had a wonderful holiday, and are looking forwards to series IV as I am. I'm very worried about it too of course, but at least it doesn't air in the annus horribiles of 2016. Let's hope it'll herald a better 2017 for all. 
> 
> Happy New year to you all - whatever it may bring.


End file.
